Dust Devils
by Sharlot
Summary: The Winchesters fight time, a vengeful spirit, and a wind demon in order to save a little girl from the monster who's stalking her. Season 2. Hurt!Dean. COMPLETE
1. Wild Cyclone

_**A/N: I obviously don't own any of Kripke's characters, and playing with the Winchesters is a privilege that I make no profit from. Thank you to my beta readers, Beckydaspatz, Numpty, and NongPradu. I am deeply indebted to them for their input and invaluable contributions to this story. The reason you are reading such a clean copy is due to their vigilance. Any remaining errors are solely my responsibility. **_

_**A/N: These events follow on the heels of those in Season Two's "Born Under a Bad Sign", so assume spoilers up to that point, especially for that episode. The story is extremely Dean-centric. Gen-fic. **_

_**A/N: Warnings for swearing, children in peril, adult themes, and disturbing sexual situations. This story has been slightly edited in order to stay within the "T" rating. The unedited version can be read on LiveJournal (the address is in my profile). Very few changes were needed to accomplish this, and only a few chapters were affected. The original version of the story is rated "R" on LJ. I have shaved this version down to what would be a "PG-13". I will indicate when a particular chapter has been altered, so that those who desire can go read the original version over on LJ. **_

_**A/N: For those interested, you can find the PDF version of this story also on LiveJournal. Just follow the address in my profile. **_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 1: Wild Cyclone**

**O**

_February 10, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Plump raindrops snapped on mud-clotted sod and clanged against the metallic construction equipment and vehicles littering the site. "We ain't gonna get much done today, not if it don't quit rainin'. Jesus, ain't it ever gonna stop? Been like this for days. Cold rain, too!" declared Hank as he cupped his calloused hands and blew into them, trying to get them warm. He cast his eyes about, following the line of the horizon where the purples, browns and greens of the wintered plains met the bleak, bubbling gray of the sky.

Seth snuffed in the wet morning air and blatted out a huff of agreement. He watched as his breath-mist whorled away from him. "Rain don't matter as much as them OSHA boys. Didn't Gerry say they were 'sposed to be here today? If they find anything wrong what caused them accidents we might not be workin' for a while. Was that their black-beauty parked down by the trailer? That them? Maybe they're already here pokin' around."

"They ain't gonna find anything," Hank barked. "What we got here is a bunch of damn klutzes. Nothin' more."

"Yeah, I 'spose." Seth bobbed his head and huddled further into his jacket, putting his back to the wind and rain. "I don't care what Doc said about Matt finally playin' with a full deck again; he's still talkin' out his ass, as far as I know. Damn fool was still delirious or something. It's windy, I'll grant ya that. Always is, but there ain't no damn way that any crazy-assed, black cloud pushed him off the roof. OSHA boys wouldn't even a'come if Matt hadn't yapped his fool head off to the papers like he did."

Hank hurked a gob of spit and nodded. "Well, everyone's gonna be here soon. Between the rain and those OSHA morons, we're likely to be held up. C'mon, let's get goin' before the shit hits the fan."

The men walked to the east end of the site where the skeleton of the strip-mall was rising from the prairie. Seth's eyes narrowed in the half-light. "What the hell?" he fisted Hank's jacket and pointed. There was little need for the directive, however, since there was debris lying everywhere, plain to see. "Hank?" he exclaimed as he jibbed suddenly and stumbled over his own feet. "What the fuck happened?"

Hank pulled his jacket from Seth's groping hands and ran toward the building. "Jesus, Seth. No way was there a twister last night. In February? We'd 'a heard the sirens." He glanced around at the damage. The back end of the building was completely shorn away, half of the roof collapsing onto the foundation below.

"It took the whole fucking back of the building!" Seth blustered. "It sure as hell looks like wind-damage. Look at this!" he said pointing to a joist that had splintered and impaled one of the support columns.

"Jesus H.!" Hank shook his head in disbelief. He heaved a huge chunk of the collapsed studding out of the way and moved into the building. Once inside he tripped over a plastic tarp they'd used to protect the building from the incessant rain that had been falling the past week. As he put his hands out to stop his fall, he felt a yielding, fleshy lump under the plastic. Confused, he pulled the tarp away. "Seth!" he called, horrified. "Seth! We got a body over here! Jesus!"

Seth clambered over the broken wall and helped Hank pull away the tarp. "Who is it, Hank? Ain't one of the guys," he whispered hoarsely. He bent down and moved away some of the young man's damp, chestnut hair in search of a pulse.

Hank adjusted his hardhat and scratched the base of his neck. "Dunno. He alive?"

"Yeah he is," Seth affirmed. "He's breathing, but he's completely out, just like the others were." He noticed Hank going through the man's pockets. "What the hell you doin', Hank? Don't be movin' him. You nuts?"

"I got it," Hank said pulling the unconscious man's wallet from his back pocket. He opened it and studied the contents. "Well ain't this poetical," he snorted and handed Seth the ID Badge.

"Sam Ulrich, OSHA Inspector," he read aloud. "What do you 'spose he was doin' here all alone before dawn?"

"Not a clue, but he's a damn fool. Dumb-shit wasn't even wearing a hardhat." Hank snorted. "OSHA," he said with derision. "Ain't this just poetical."

"You said that already, Hank," Seth scolded and checked the man's pulse again. "Well, he may be a damn fool, but we ain't gonna let him just die."

"You got that right," Hank assured as he pulled out his cell phone and began dialing.

**O**

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel Livingston slammed the screen door of the farmhouse with a hollow, squeaking bang as she did every morning on her way out to do her chores. And her mother hollered for her to quiet down and act like a lady just as _she_ did every morning on her daughter's way out to do her chores. The child chuckled, set her pail down and stuck her forefinger in her mouth, wetting it good and plucking it out with a juicy pop. She held it up, testing the wind and surveying the morning. Her eyes followed the hopeful color in the sky as pink and turquoise blended with the pale gold of the sun on the horizon. But any promise the sun may have made was broken when the liquid disk failed to soften the stark, slate-gray flat of the plain below. Florabel's world, from horizon to the very porch she stood upon, was like a dusty charcoal drawing, varying shades of gray coated the landscape, broken only by the dark silhouettes of distant, hardscrabble farms with their lifeless barns and empty silos. Her foot lazily traced a looping pattern in the dark dust, its fine grains the consistency of talcum powder.

The seeming silence was pointedly broken by the reverberating, metallic knocking of the windmill as it churned endlessly in the ever-present swish of the wind—a wind that sought out and infested everything with its mischief. It wailed like a banshee as it struck the tarpaper roof of the chicken coop and whistled shrilly in the eaves as it clipped the farmhouse. Florabel wiggled her finger. She wasn't sure what she was looking for or what her wet finger was supposed to find. But her papa had always greeted the morning with his wet finger held in the wind, so she did it now. Nothing happened except that the blowing dirt clung to the small digit, turning it the color of the horizon. The color of dust. Studying the vacant landscape before her, she tried to imagine it like her mama said it had once been. But she just couldn't. Green prairie grass and wildflowers were unimaginable for the seven year old. She wiped her gritty finger on her bib-overalls, leaving a smudge she was sure her mother would scold her for later.

She felt a deep rumble in her lungs, and she coughed roughly, spitting out a brown, gritty paste. If she kept coughing like that her mama would be rubbing her throat and chest with skunk-oil and turpentine, and she really hated the smell. She snuffled her nose and cleared her throat some more. She looked at her finger again. Even if she couldn't tell anything from sticking it in the wind, she reckoned that today would be like all the other days she had known, windy and gray. And filled with dust. She bent down and swept up her pail. Jumping down the stairs of the veranda, she hop-scotched down the path to the barn, being ever so careful to keep the contents of her pail from spilling. More dust swirled off the top of the chicken coop and sparkled when the cool morning sun struck the silica in the dirt as it was tumbled into the air.

Florabel gasped and swallowed as the dust glistened and twinkled as it spiraled away in the wind. "Fairy dust!" she declared with awe. "Molly! Fairies was here!" she called as she opened the gate to the chicken yard. Molly clucked her excitement and bobbed toward the young girl. The other chickens also caught sight of the swinging pail and eagerly followed Molly.

"Yessir, Molly! Fairies was here in the night!" Florabel chirped. She reached into her pail, pulled out a crawling centipede and flicked it from her finger in Molly's direction. The bird lunged after it, neck stretched to near breaking and gobbled hungrily. "You know what that a-means? It means good luck!" she affirmed with an enthusiastic, sagely nod. "It means rain's a-comin' an' Mama's gonna be happy agin! Why, maybe even Slaid and Old Jeb will be able to plant this year! Oh Molly, won't that be dandy?!" The chickens were clucking, and Florabel grabbed a handful of squiggling centipedes and scattered them like rose petals above the gaping beaks of the hungry birds. Florabel giggled madly as she watched the birds step on each other in a greedy competition to catch the falling insects, scrabbling like unmarried girls hungrily vying for the bride's tossed bouquet. Their fussing kicked up the dirt in the yard; Florabel watched it billow away and lightly pelt the side of the barn.

She looked over the brood of chickens and furrowed her brow. "Where's Matilda?" she asked Molly. "She was here yesterday," she looked around trying to spot the missing chicken. "Matlida!" she called out. Her search was interrupted by a forlorn, creaking bang. Florabel hushed the other chickens and listened. She heard it again. It was the barn door. She was sure she had shut it the night before. She fretted and quickly upended her pail and thumped it repeatedly, raining dozens of centipedes down on the flock and sending the chickens scurrying madly in all directions as they chased after the bounty. "Mama's gonna fret at me somethin' fierce!" she declared with a grimace. She always made sure she shut the barn door but good. She knew better. With an assumed adult air, she echoed her mother's world-weariness, looked heavenward and flustered, "One thing after another, Lord! I'll be back for the eggs in a minute," Florabel assured the chickens. She quickly left them to their breakfast, rounded the barn and stopped short.

The barn-door was not just open, it was hanging off its hinges, and the unstable doors were being twitted by the wind, causing them to rattle against the barn. Florabel gaped and stepped over several shingles that had fallen from the roof. Tugging on one of her long, sun-paled braids nervously, she tip-toed into the barn. "Oh my goodness!" Florabel gasped as she surveyed the damage.

Old bridles and saddles were spilling out of the tack room, the walls of which had collapsed. A couple of the beams anchoring the loft had snapped, causing the floor above to list dangerously. Strange wooden planks and fragments, still golden and fresh, lay strewn among the older pieces of the barn. She picked up a chunk of new wood and studied it. It didn't come from the barn. Even the nails were foreign and strange to her. Bales of hay and feed were scattered everywhere and poor Penny, the milk cow, mooed her distress as Florabel ventured further into the barn.

As the young girl assessed the damage, punctuated with many gasps of "Merciful Lordy!" she spied a man lying at the back of the barn, hay haphazardly covering him and weaving through his sandy hair. Another drunk rail-rider, no doubt. Wasn't the first time she'd found a poor hobo in the barn seeking shelter for the night.

"You shouldn't be here, Mister!" she wagged her finger at the man. She marched over to him with hands on hips and bent down. "You need to wake up and git a move on!" she warned in her best grown-up voice, stamping her foot by his head to put the fear of Jesus in him. The man did not stir a muscle. Florabel knelt down and poked. "You wake up, and scoot, y'hear?" she clipped, pointing to the door for emphasis. She bent low enough for her braids to sweep across his face, but he didn't so much as twitch. She bent lower and sniffed expecting the tell-tale aroma of whiskey, but she didn't smell anything. She waited a moment. "You sick, Mister?" When the man made no response whatsoever, Florabel suddenly took on the part of "doctor" with a full gusto. She pantomimed taking a pocket-watch from her pocket and put her finger to his wrist. After mulling over his vital signs she poked him in the ribs. "Does this hurt, Mister?" The man made no answer and his wrist flopped limply on the ground when the "doctor" dropped his hand in her haste. She turned and barked out stern orders.

"Nurse Monroe!" she said emphatically, adding to her cast of characters. "Please fetch me my spephiscope!" When the nurse did not move fast enough, Dr. Livingston impressed sternly. "Hurry! He's almost dead!" Florabel's eyes followed the 'nurse' and then returned to her patient with renewed concern. She held her braid out of the way and swooped down dramatically to take a listen with her ear to his chest. She lurched up with her diagnosis. "It could be Dust Pneumonia or…" She bent down for a second listen. "Maybe an ague!" She ungently pried each of her patient's eyes open in turn, nodding and harumphing with some inner medical secret as his amber-jade irises meandered vacantly back and forth in slow wandering sweeps. Satisfied with the state of his eyeballs, she moved onto his nostrils, prying them apart and giving the inner workings of his nose a thorough once over. "Not Diphtheria!" she declared with complete confidence, allowing his nostrils to contract to their original size. Her demeanor suddenly shifted.

"Oh, oh thank you Jesus!" she said, switching roles and becoming the man's distraught 'wife'. She pressed her palms together in supplication and rocked back and forth earnestly. "You have to save him, Doc! He's all I got!" she pled as she scrunched her face up and began to 'weep' pitifully.

"It's OK, Ms. Myrtle," she soothed as the 'doctor' again. "I'll save him!" She sat back, supporting her elbow with her hand and tapping her temple while she thought deep medical thoughts. After having a 'eureka moment', she ceremoniously put her hands to his brow to check for a deadly fever and stopped in surprise. Her faced pinched suddenly, and all the play and make-believe fell away as she touched his cheeks and felt the very real heat radiating off of them.

"Hey Mister," she shook him, trying to wake him up. Her eyes swept over him, and she noticed a white bandage peeking out from his torn shirt. Moving the fabric to the side, she peeled the bandage off his left shoulder, revealing a red-rimmed hole filled with custardy pus. Angry red lines branched out from the wound's creamy center, one stretching out across the pad of his chest. She grimaced at the sweet smell and quickly put the bandage back in place. Standing up, she hesitated for just a moment before running out of the barn. Tearing up the path to the farmhouse she wailed loudly. "Mama! Mama! They's a strange man dying in the barn!"

**O**

_February 10, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Hank rode in with him. Dudn't know him, though. He came over from OSHA to inspect because of what happened to Matt and the others." The EMT helped to move the senseless man onto the ER gurney. "Hank and Seth found him. You should 'a seen the site, Doc. Looked like an isolated twister came and took out the whole backside of the building."

"Stranger things have been known to happen, Mitch," Doc said to the young EMT and peeled back the eyelids of his patient, shining his penlight several times in each.

"He looks to have some broken ribs, but I didn't see any outward evidence of head trauma. He's pretty cold, though. Dunno how long he lay out there. Coulda been all night. We put a thermal on him on the ride over," said Mitch.

"Well we'll get him warm and do some scans and see what's what." Doc Haffner drawled good-naturedly, sticking a thermometer in the man's ear. "93-degrees."

"He ain't even shivering, Doc. That normal?" Mitch asked.

"Mild hypothermia. He should be shivering," Doc mused. "They only stop when it's bad. He ain't been awake at all?" he asked.

"Completely unresponsive, Doc, the whole time. Pupil dilation is good, though. Don't see any concussion. But he don't react to pain or cold." Mitch began to cut off the man's shirt, revealing the angry, mottled bruising on his right side. "You don't think it's like Matt, do ya?"

"I don't think nothin' yet, boy. Let's not jump no guns."

"Yeah, you're right. It's just weird, you know?" Mitch said.

"What do we got here?" Doc wondered as he pried open the man's hand revealing a jaggedly torn scrap of flannel and a strange charm affixed to a broken leather strap. He held it up and studied the metallic horned head. "Ain't that odd, now. What do you make of that? Lucky charm?"

Mitch came close to inspect it, his fingers playing with the charm that dangled from the strap. "Huh, don't look like nothing an OSHA Inspector would have."

"Whatever it is, he didn't want to give it up. Had to practically break his fingers to open that hand. Let's keep it with his things. Abby will look after it all until he's awake or at least until we can get it to his emergency contact."

"Where's Abby this morning?" Mitch asked looking around for the gorgeously plump nurse with the china doll complexion that he always looked forward to seeing and flirting with every day.

"Well now, I had sent her out for some coffee. Wasn't like I was expectin' an emergency. In fact," he pulled out his cell phone. "Better tell her to bring you and Hank a cup, too, since you boys are both here."

"You better call Bekker, too," Mitch lightly palpated the patient's right side. "This boy's gonna need some X-rays."

"Let's put that thermal back on him and get him warming and we can call in the cavalry." Doc clapped his arm around Mitch as he reached for the blanket. "How's your mama doin', anyhow, Mitch? She still plannin' on makin' those pies for the raffle?"

**O**

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Emma Livingston crooked her head, wiping gritty sweat onto the upper sleeve of her work-dress despite the chill in the kitchen. It was a monotonous daily chore, but the dust had to be cleaned up. She leaned back, resting on her heels and wiped the cold, soapy water on her apron. Her hair needed combing and she hadn't given any thought to breakfast yet. Not that there was much beyond last night's cornbread and beans. Wasn't her that she was worrying about, though. She rubbed at the hard angles and frown-lines on her face. She'd get on all right. It was her child that mattered. Florabel was getting thinner, and she heard the child coughing when she went out to feed the chickens. She sighed and went back to scrubbing the floor. One of the only good things about the dust was that it was an effective abrasive, and she never had much problem getting a troublesome spot up these days. Of course the dust had also chafed away almost everything else she ever loved. She could do with dirty floors. "Y'ain't takin' my girl from me, too," she hissed at the muddy soap on the floor. "Y'cain't have her. You got everything else." The young woman sighed slightly when she heard her daughter calling out wildly. "What now?" she asked the ceiling bitterly. She tiredly got to her feet and opened the door just as Florabel was barreling up the stairs of the old porch.

"Mama, you got t'come quick! They's a man in the barn. I think he's a-dyin'! He won't wake up an' he ain't even drunk. Come on, Mama." She tugged at her mother's thin arm.

Emma moved stiffly as her daughter yanked her down the path. She used her free hand to shield her eyes against the gritty sting of the wind as cold dust devils roiled through the barnyard. Once she was close enough that the barn blocked the brunt of the wind, Emma lowered her hand just in time to see the damage to the door. "What happened, here?" she asked as she pulled Florabel back and protectively placed the child behind her.

"I dunno, Mama," the child spouted from behind. "Maybe they was a storm or somethin'. It's all tore up inside, too. I closed the door last night. I know I did, Mama."

"It's all right baby girl," Emma said and carefully entered the barn. Her eyes widened, anger and anguish combined and skirted across her face. She wrung her hands in her apron. "What more?" she clenched out, her eyes pinballing around the barn, calculating each gouge, rip, and break. "I cain't take much more," she choked out as she clasped her bony hands to her lips in angry prayer.

"Mama, he's lyin' over there. Look!" Florabel tip-toed over to her patient and waved her mother over.

Emma's lips pursed and her eyes went deadly. She furiously strode over to the unconscious man, tripping on a piece of wood that didn't belong there. She picked it up and did a double take, searching the barn again to see where it might have come from. After a brief glance, she gave it no further thought. She bent over the man. "You, wake up and git out a-here!" she spat, shaking him ruthlessly.

"Mama don't!" Florabel protested, kneeling by his shoulder. "He's hurt. See?" She pulled back the bandage revealing the syrupy infection. "He's awful hot, Mama. I think he's real, real sick."

Emma pulled her daughter away from the unconscious stranger and looked at his shoulder. Her intake of breath was audible as she gently felt the edges of the wound and ran her thin hand over his brow. "Florabel, I want you to run over to the bunk-house and git Slaid and Old Jeb here. And then I want you to go to the house and stay there, y'hear me?"

"But Mama…" Florabel protested.

"Quick as a jackrabbit, baby girl, now go!" When Florabel's mama talked like that, there was absolutely no arguing. Florabel ran as fast as her young legs could take her to the old bunkhouse, frantically calling for their last remaining farmhands.

**O**

_February 10, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"It's the same thing, isn't it Doc?" Gerry asked. "And where's the other one? There was two of 'em at my office yesterday. Is his partner around about?"

"Hell, I dunno, yet," Doc jawed slowly and scratched his grey beard. "This boy ain't even come to, yet. We'll have to see. Hank rode in the ambulance with this fellow. He didn't mention any partner, and there ain't anyone other than Hank in the waiting room."

"What if this boy comes to like the others? How long did it take 'em to really come around? A week? These are OSHA boys, Doc. I've got a building to get up. Hell, not just get up, I have to practically start from scratch, again. Half the damn building was shorn clean off. I can't afford any more setbacks, Doc" the contractor blew out a stiff breath. "I ain't tryin' to be callous. I'm worried all the way 'round is all."

"I hear ya, Gerry. I just can't give you an answer that I don't got, yet," Doc soothed. "Let's just see what happens. If OSHA calls askin' about these boys, well I'll come right out and tell 'em what's what. Until then, you just keep doin' what you got to do, I guess. I ain't gonna call OSHA myself until this kid wakes up and wants me to. Abby's callin' his emergency contact that was in his wallet. That's good enough for me."

Gerry huffed out a breath of relief. "Yeah, OK Doc. That sounds good. So he's doin' OK otherwise?"

"Two broken ribs and some bumps and bruises. He was hypothermic from his night out in the rain, but he's warming up nicely. X-rays and scans show his head is fine, but he's senseless just the same. We'll have to see what he remembers when he wakes up.

"His partner has to be around here somewhere," Gerry said. "They were practically actin' like an old married couple when they were talkin' to me yesterday, snipin' at each other and givin' each other the stink-eye. They're kinda young to be that pissy with each other as partners, but whatever. None of my business. I'll have Seth and Hank search the place again to make sure he ain't wrapped in another tarp or something, but there was a lot of folk crawlin' around the place when the ambulance came. I'd a'thought they'd find anything if there was something to find. But I don't know where he coulda gotten to."

"All right," Doc said. "I got to get this boy in a room, and you need to go make sure your site is safe, Gerry. I ain't equipped to take on a mass problem like this. I don't want no more patients from your site. We're gonna have to start callin' in some real help if this don't stop. Y'hear me?"

The contractor nodded. "I hear you loud and clear Doc. Everyone is following the safety procedures to the letter. I swear it. I don't know how this has happened. Maybe what Matt and the boys said after they finally come around to their senses is true."

"What?" scoffed Doc. "That some hell-bound ghost attacked them? They were talkin' about ghosts jabbering hocus pocus to make black whirlwinds appear and attack them. C'mon, Gerry, you ain't _that_ dumb. It's 2007, not the damn Dark Ages."

**O**

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"What is this?" Slaid intoned in his old-world accent. Florabel moved behind her mother for safety. She was frightened of the man, not just because of his strange speech and his ugly fingers, but because she was sure she'd seen him turn into a monster once. Old Jeb had laughed and told her that there weren't any such things as monsters, but she knew otherwise. At any rate, monster or not he helped her mama with the farm-work, so she just shut up about it, like her mother insisted. Right now, Florabel wasn't paying any attention to his guttural talk. She pulled Old Jeb over to the sick man who lay amidst the broken beams and shingles.

"I found him this morning all by myself, Old Jeb," she boasted, pulling the older man's hand. She looked up into his weather-worn face; the years in the sun and wind had left it the texture of a coffee-colored raisin. "He ain't got Diphtheria or Dust Pneumonia. I done made sure.

"That's a good thing, doll." The old man petted her braids and gave Emma a concerned look when she pulled back the bandage on the stranger's shoulder, showing the two farmhands the wound.

Jeb coughed in surprise. "Someone tried to fill this boy with daylight, Em!" he exclaimed.

"I can see that, Jeb," Emma said, swallowing her disgust at the smell and replacing the bandage quickly.

"What's that mean?" the young girl demanded.

"Florabel, I told you to go back to the house," Emma said flatly, too distracted to properly scold the child.

"But Mama, I found him. I don't want him to die," she practically wailed, having already become attached to the man as if he were a sickly stray pup she'd run across.

"He's nothing but a no account drifter," Slaid scoffed. "Or a grifter, ya? Someone taught him good lessons, BANG!" he said as he pantomimed firing a gun.

"You mean someone shot him?" Florabel asked wide eyed.

"Hush, child" her mother said, standing up and wiping the dust and hay from her dress.

"Well he ain't from around these parts, that's for sure," Jeb offered. "Look at him. I ain't seen nobody that well fed in a month of Mondays."

"Ha, big circus strong-man, ya?" Slaid flexed his emaciated biceps as though he had something there to flex. "Probably out of work now that Prohibition is over. Big mobster. Dangerous. It looks like he fought the devil in here last night," he said and proceeded to knock three times on one of the broken beams and spit over his left shoulder to avoid the Evil Eye. He surveyed the damage in the barn. "You should let me and Jeb take him away, Ms. Livingston."

"And do what?" she asked, liking the young farmhand even less than she normally did. "Y'cain't just take him out behind the barn and put him down like a sick dog, Slaid. It ain't Christian."

"Slaid is right about one thing, though, Em. He could be dangerous. Maybe we should take him to Hirum and let him deal with this boy." Jeb warned.

"I ain't turnin' him over to the law until I know he earned it. Sheriff Burnett's got enough to deal with. Let's git him up to the house and if Jesus wants him, then so be it. But he's someone's son, and I ain't a-gonna make his mama mourn if she don't have to. Folks lost enough already. I ain't a-gonna…" her chin trembled and she took a moment to compose herself. "I ain't a-gonna bury someone's son if'n I can do somethin' about it. Now you boys help me git him up to the house," she clipped sternly and left no more room for debate. "An' careful with his shoulder, now."

Jeb mumbled as he bent down. "My old ma always told me they was two theories to arguin' with a woman…an' neither one works," he said with a nod to Slaid. "Let's git this boy up and to the house."

The unconscious man made no sound or movement as the two farmhands lifted him as gently as they could and worked their way up to the Livingston's farmhouse. Florabel and Emma tried to shield the men from the dust as it billowed across the yard, scraping against their faces and abrading their eyes. Emma pulled her apron off and draped it over the sick man's face as tears had already made dusty tracks towards his ears in an attempt to wash the blowing dirt away from his sensitive eyes.

"Big, strong man," Slaid grunted under the weight. "Circus man. You'll see," he warned. "Devil fighter. Very dangerous."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	2. Two Good Men

_**A/N: Just a quick disclaimer to state that any similarities that this fic has with S7's "Time after Time after Time" are strictly coincidental. This story was drafted and outlined long before I knew of that episode's existence. And yes, in case you're wondering, I did shit a brick when I found out about it. But what do you do? Well, you finish your damn story, that's what you do! :) **_

_**A/N: My thanks go to my betas NongPradu, Numpty, and Beckydaspatz for their encouragement and amazing eagle-eyes.**_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes and children in peril. See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers.**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 2: Two Good Men**

**O**

_February 10, 2007—Harvelle's Roadhouse_

Ellen adjusted the cell phone, switching ears and cradling the receiver against her shoulder while she ran a wet rag over the countertop. "Now, Bobby Singer, you just slow down before you throw a clot. I can hear your veins poppin' from here. Who? Dean? No. Last I spoke to him was more'n a week ago when he was lookin' for Sam, but I haven't heard from either one of them since. Had to find out from Jo what went down." She paused in mid-wipe and gripped the phone with a sigh. "She's fine. Won't come back home, though. Stubborn as a damn mule," she said wearily and closed her eyes, retreating into her own pain for a moment. Bobby pulled her back abruptly. Her eyes snapped opened and widened suddenly. "Who called?" She leaned against the counter and switched ears again. "Sam's where? Where Oklahoma? Never heard of it. Is he gonna be all right? And they don't even know who Dean is? No sign of him? Have you tried his cell?" Ellen rolled her eyes. "I know you ain't an 'idgit', Bobby. Well, you are, but I'm sure you called his cell," she said, the burnt edges of her smoky voice singed with humor. "I was just trying to cover all the bases." She looked through the near empty bar to spot Ash sitting at a nearby table with his computer in front of him and started moving his way. "How far out are you? Well, get your ass down here and pick me up. I'll ride along." She snapped Ash with her rag and motioned toward the bar. "I ain't takin' French leave, Singer. Ash will look after the Roadhouse for me while we're gone."

Ash rubbed his chest where Ellen's rag bit him, drained the last of his PBR and burped loudly. "Careful now. Ellen. This is prime rib you're damaging," he said as he massaged his nipples in wounded indignation. He clapped his laptop closed. "Where you goin'?"

"One sec, Bobby," she said distractedly and turned to face Ash. "Boise City, Oklahoma. I need you to mind the bar. And don't be drinking all my stock, neither. I'll kick your ass, don't think I won't." She pointed to the bar.

"Didn't someone, somewhere, sign some proclamation against slavery a while back?" Ash muttered as he grabbed his laptop off the table.

"Yeah, same fellow as signed a proclamation against no-account moochers," Ellen tossed back and pointed to the bar. "Now, move your ass." After Ash had shuffled off as he was told, Ellen pushed in his vacated chair with her foot, lobbed the rag onto the bar and spoke into the phone. "All right, Singer, I'll be ready by the time you get here." She stopped while Bobby spoke, putting her hand on her hip and dithering as she listened before going behind the bar again. "I know I don't have to. I want to. I care about them boys same as you." She nodded and absently ran her hand along the smooth, well-worn grain of the bar-top. "I know it wasn't Sam's fault. But I can't understand why in the hell they weren't warded before now, is all." She pulled out a shot-glass, placed it right-side up on the bar-top and grabbed a whiskey bottle. "Well once we find Dean and sort this out, don't think for one moment that I won't ink their asses myself if I have to." She pulled the collar of her shirt down, studying the anti-possession charm's warding symbol tattooed directly above her heart. "Why John never took care of this for them before now is beyond me. He was one of the most obsessed, hard-assed sonsabitches I ever did know, but he was terrible reckless at times, especially with them boys. You'd think he'd 'a warded them years ago." She poured herself a double-shot and downed it, allowing the slow burn to spice her natural husk. "Well, they ain't getting a week older before them symbols are permanent once I get a hold of 'em," she rasped. "And it ain't just themselves the tatts will be protectin'." She stood for a moment considering the whiskey bottle in her hand, shrugged and took a generous pull right from the bottle. "You just get here as quick as you can and let's help them boys."

**O**

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Mama, why's his eyelashes so long?" Florabel asked. She sat on the old, post-rope bed next to the unconscious man and placed her forefinger on his eye, trying to gauge the length of the lashes. Her mother bustled around the room, arms full of strips of linen, towels, bedding and supplies. When Florabel didn't get an immediate response from the distracted adult, she asked again. "How come his eyelashes is so long, Mama?"

"Because God wanted them that a-way," Emma said heedlessly as she dodged Slaid and Jeb who were loitering around not knowing where they needed to stand or what they should be doing. She set her burden down and pulled some ointment and medicine bottles out of her apron pocket. They clinked together as she put them on the nightstand.

"Why's his shirt all tore up?" the child asked as she took his hand, trying to situate it comfortably on his chest for him. "Look Mama, he's got a ring! See?"

"Mm hmm," Emma said, too busy to pay attention. She bumped into Jeb again as she tried to get the man's boots off. "You boys git out from under foot and make yourselves useful. Jeb, I want you to help me git him down past his union suit. Slaid, take that bucket and fetch some water and set it to boiling. Florabel, hop down from there and keep your dirty hands off him until you've washed up. Why don't you go on out with Slaid for that water? You don't need to be seein' him until he's settled under the covers."

"Ya, me and Florabel." Slaid agreed. "Let's get water, good." Slaid smiled and winked at the child. He stretched out his hand and wiggled his fingers playfully. Florabel went rigid as she looked at the long, bony digits. She shook her head and pulled on her mother's dress earnestly.

"No mama! I wanna stay here," Florabel insisted anxiously. "I'll stand in the corner. I won't even look at his skivvies. He needs me to stay, 'cause you's a-gonna scare him. He don't know you, yet. He 'members me from the barn. He needs me," she persuaded. The young girl ran to the corner of the room and put her back to the action. "I'm not peekin', Mama. See? I'm not peekin'!"

Emma looked at her daughter in confusion. "Florabel, you do as I say and go git the water. He ain't a-gonna wake up yet. Now go."

Florabel looked at Slaid and started to panic. "Mama. Mama, no." She suddenly had an idea. "Mama, I'll go make a bread and milk poultice for his shoulder. Like you did for me when I cut my leg on the fence. You want me to do that instead?"

Emma was too harried to argue. "All right, make sure you put plenty of milk in it and wrap it up good in cheesecloth and knock before you come a-bargin' back in." Florabel scurried from the room.

Slaid shrugged as he watched her go. He turned and looked at the man in the bed and scoffed. "Drifter gets good treatment, ya? Pup with no home? Fought the Devil in the barn," he sneered. "Maybe didn't fight. Maybe he called the Devil or the Devil came with him, hmm? _Ördög_ friend," he intoned as he knocked three times on the doorway and turned to spit.

Emma put up her hand before he could finish. "Don't you _dare _think about spittin' in this house," she said hotly. "Now quit standin' around jabberin' your nonsense. I need water boiled. You git enough to fill up the big black pot to full." She shooed him off and shut the door loudly.

Jeb chuckled and ran his hand over his hollow, old cheeks. "Land, Emma, that girl sure don't like Slaid all of a sudden. She's as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs whenever he's around," he said with a grin as he started to remove the fevered man's shirt. "She tol' me how Slaid had growled at her one time, said he turned into a right monster."

Emma shook her head in slight exasperation. "Well, you know how Florabel is with them silly notions of hers. If I remember correctly she also said they was a leprechaun sleepin' in Penny's stall with her last spring," she said with a sigh. "She's got a powerful imagination an' she's just a-scared of the way Slaid talks." She gingerly pulled the man's bad arm out of his sleeve. "That and he's just plain sour and coarse," she said with a guilty grin at her own cheek. "He probably did growl at her if she done something annoying; you know how the child can jabber on non-stop. But he done many a good turn, too. They's no denyin' that. He took care of Florabel after…" she broke off with a pained glance at the old man. "When I couldn't," she said sadly. "Florabel just needs to grow out of it." She moved down toward the foot of the bed to take off the man's trousers. She undid the button and raised an eyebrow. "He sure ain't from nowhere around here. Look at this," she exclaimed. Jeb came close and watched as she pulled the zipper up and down. "How handy is that?" she examined the fly with awe.

"Well, he just don't make a lick of sense a'tall," Jeb agreed. "It's like he fell out'a nowhere. An' what about all them planks and pieces of wood in the barn? Hope he wakes up, 'cause I sure as shootin' want to hear his story." He helped her tug off his pants.

Emma surveyed the situation. "All right, we'll leave him as he is for now. Might be able to find him one of Red's old nightshirts later for him to wear. Hand me that blanket and we'll git him respectable." Once covered to his waist, she sat on the side of the bed and peeled back the bandage with an empathetic, wincing intake of breath. "This is bad, Jeb," she said looking at the weeping, deeply infected bullet hole. "It had to have been festerin' more'n a week. But it seems like he was tryin' to take care of it, somewhat." She looked at the dirty bandage and set it aside. Checking his temperature with the back of her hand to his forehead she shook her head in dismay. "He's just ate up with fever."

"What do you s'pose he done to git shot up?" Jeb mused as he pulled out the man's billfold from his pants pocket. "Maybe he's a bank robber. But he don't got no money," he said opening it up and inspecting it. "All he gots is these," he said, holding up a few small rectangular cards. The old man squinted, held the card at a comfortable distance and read. "Says 'Dean Hetfield—OSHA Inspector'. Now what in hell's blazes do you 'spose that is? 'OSHA'," he repeated and examined the card, bending it curiously and biting on it. He turned it over and looked at the back.

"Language, Jeb," Emma scolded lightly.

"It's got a photograph of the feller right on this gizmo! I ain't never seen nothin' like this in all my life. Look here," Jeb said pointing. "It says 'Occupational Safety and Health Administration'. You ever hear of any such beast? You think he's a G-man of some kind? And what is this card made of, anyhow?" he asked in wonder.

"You put those back, Jeb. Ain't ours to pry at," Emma said. "Leastwise until he wakes and can speak for hisself. We know what his name is, now. That's good enough for us, for the time being, anyhow."

"You think he's a spy?" Jeb said wide-eyed as he put the items back in the billfold and glanced around furtively, as though he half expected sinister, masked men to come out of the woodwork.

"Cain't imagine a spy tearin' up my barn and then just curlin' up for a rest." Emma said. "Let's just see if'n we cain't pull him back from death's door and worry about the rest later."

Just then there was a tentative knock on the door and Florabel's muffled, pleading voice called out. "Mama, I knocked like you said. Can I come in?" Jeb moved to the door and opened it when Emma nodded her OK. "I brought the poultice. It's good 'n wet," she said proudly. "Slaid brought the water, but I just had him set it on the porch and tol' him to go on back to the bunkhouse. We don't need him for anything else, Mama. You and me and Old Jeb, we can take care of him. I drug in the water all by myself and put it to boilin'. It'll be ready soon." She set the poultice down on the nightstand, put her hands on her hips and looked around, taking stock of what she needed to do next.

Emma pulled her daughter over to her and rubbed her back. "Good work, baby girl. Although, you need not be so rude to Slaid. I don't know what gits into you sometimes."

Florabel stared at the floor and swallowed. "I'm sorry, Mama."

Jeb came over and patted her head. "Slaid just don't know our ways very well, is all. He come from a family who still keep to their strange, old ways from foreign parts. He don't mean nothin' by it."

Florabel nodded and looked contrite but continued to avoid eye-contact with both adults. She just nodded and continued to stare at the floor. "I don't like strange ways from foreign parts," she said contorting her hands into 'monster-claws' and wiggled them maniacally accompanied by plenty of monster noises. "Grar! Rawr!" she roared at the floor. She dropped her play and looked at Jeb. "I don't like foreign ways," she said emphatically.

The old man grinned. "And if we was to go to foreign parts, I reckon they wouldn't like our ways much neither," he lectured without scolding. Florabel just shrugged, idly pursed her lips and swayed innocently as she studied the floor. Jeb chuckled and warmly gave her braid a tug. "I'll go watch and see that water don't boil over and bring it in straight away so's you can git this feller cleaned up and that wound drained," he said and left the two women to their nursing duties.

Florabel leaned her body into the side of the bed and watched the sick stranger. "He sure does have a lot of scars, Mama," she noted. "What happened there?" she asked pointing to a scar just below his gunshot wound, a puckered burn mark that had eventually healed over.

"I'm not sure. Looks like he got near branded somehow," Emma said. Florabel hooted with laughter, finding that absurd.

"You don't brand people, silly! Only cows!" she instructed her mother and then sobered a little, her little face pinched with worry. "You think he's gonna wake up soon, Mama?"

"I don't know," Emma said and turned her daughter to face her. She could see that the child was becoming strangely attached and wanted to brace her for the most likely outcome. "But you listen to me, now. He's hurt real bad, Florabel. He may just fade away, and we cain't fuss about it, if that happens, you hear me? We'll do what's right and Christian, but we cain't latch onto what Jesus claims as his, so don't you go gittin' your hopes up, now. I know you kinda cottoned to him because you was the one who found him, but I don't want you hollerin' and a-carryin' on if he goes to Jesus. We don't even know him. We'll be sorry and proper respectful if he passes, but that's it." Emma gave her daughter a tugging hug.

"I know, Mama. But I'm real good at doctorin', so we'll just make Jesus wait an extra few years for him," Florabel boasted with a nod of assurance.

Emma smiled. "Come on, let's git washed up and git ready. We got to hang some wet sheets over the windows in here to keep the dust away from him and git to work. It's gonna be a long day."

**O**

_February 10, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Thank you for meeting us so late. We broke almost every speed limit gettin' here as fast as we could. Our nephew means the world to us. We were worried sick. What's his condition?" Bobby put his arm around Ellen to complete their performance as worried relatives. The being relatives part may have been a sham, but the worry wasn't.

Doc gave his stubble a tired once-over. "Well, he's stable. He's suffered a couple of broken ribs that will take some time to heal. And he took some lumps, but most of 'em are all superficial. On those two counts, he should be just fine."

"There are other 'counts'? What else is wrong with him?" Ellen asked.

The doctor bobbled and scratched the nape of his neck. "Medically speaking? Nothing else is wrong as far as we can see. But he ain't entirely right. Truth is, you see, he's been unconscious since he was brought in this morning. Still hasn't cracked an eye. But there's no concussion or head trauma of any kind. We even ran tox screens to see if he had taken something, but it all came back negative."

Bobby and Ellen looked questions at each other. After a pause, Bobby spoke up. "And his partner, Dean? He hasn't been in here asking after Sam?"

"OK, well, Gerry said that he spoke with both boys yesterday at the construction site. But as far as I know that's the last time anyone saw the other man."

"Gerry?" Bobby asked.

"Gerry Burnett. He's the foreman at the construction site up by the airport that this boy was inspecting. Gerry said OSHA sent these boys over to see what all happened to Matt and a couple of the other boys at the construction site."

"OK, Doc, I know it's late and all, but we're coming into a story half told. Can y'start at page one for us?" Bobby adjusted his baseball cap snappishly.

The doctor took a breath and waited a couple of beats. "OK, more'n a month ago, when ground was first broke on the new mall, men started having some odd accidents. Bret Hammond broke a collarbone and three ribs. Jesse Gibson busted his kneecap and bruised a kidney. Matt Crawford was the last one, he fell more'n 12-15 foot from the top of the scaffolding up by the roof. Broke his leg in three places. After he come to his senses, he squawked to the Boise City News about what happened or what he thought happened. It was just crazy nonsense if you ask me." Ellen and Bobby made eye-contact and turned back to the doctor as he went on. "A couple days later, your nephew showed up with his partner from OSHA lookin' into the accidents. Gerry says he had a chat with them yesterday. Then this morning a couple of workers found your nephew lyin' senseless at the site. That's about as close to page one as I can get you. You can ask Gerry what he knows tomorrow."

"All right, so Sam hasn't regained consciousness? You have no idea why?" Ellen asked.

"He's still out like a light. Just like the other three were," Doc affirmed.

"I'm sorry. You lost me again. Like the others?" Bobby huffed.

"Weeeeeell, see, all three of them boys also came in here insensible. They were out for close to a day. When they came to, at first they were practically catatonic, eyes fixated far off and didn't react to nothing. That lasted a day or so, and then when they finally started speakin', they…" he waffled and looked uncomfortable. "They didn't have a memory in their heads."

Bobby's jaw dropped. "Amnesia?" he gawped.

The doc looked a little chagrined. "Well, in a manner of speaking, yeah. Didn't last too long, though. Well, leastwise it didn't last too long for Matt or Jesse. Matt had family huddled around him all the time that were able to talk him back to his senses. Jesse went home and the moment he saw his house and little girl, the lights flipped right back on for him. Bret didn't remember for a few weeks. Both his parents are dead, and it took his sister a few weeks to be able to get here from out of state. After a few days with her, he finally remembered who he was." The doctor shuffled and adjusted his lab coat a little defensively. "It wasn't like a medical amnesia. I don't know what happened to those boys, whether it was some crazy PTSD or whatever, but there was no brain injury present in any of them. CT's, MRI's, X-rays were all clear. After the families gathered 'round and started talking to these boys, they slowly came to. Took some time to jar their memories, but they're all fine now, broken bones notwithstanding."

"And you're saying Sam has the same issue?" Ellen interjected.

"I'm not sayin' anything. I'm only answering your questions," Doc said. "All I know right now is that Sam has two broken ribs and is unresponsive, with no conclusive diagnosis for his current state of unconsciousness. I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you right now. We're just going to have to wait until he wakes up to see if he remembers anything."

Bobby sighed. "Can we see him? We'd like to sit with him a spell if you don't mind."

Doc nodded and moved toward the only nurse's station in the small hospital. "Carrie, will you show these folks to Mr. Ulrich's room?" The doctor regarded the couple. "I think Sam will be stable until the morning. You can sit with him as long as you like. I'm going over to the Doctor's lounge. Carrie will call me if I'm needed." He shook their hands and turned to leave.

"Wait," Bobby said. "You mentioned that Matt told the papers a strange account of how he got hurt. What did he say happened?"

Doc chuckled. "That goofy lunatic swore he was attacked by a ghost." He laughed again. "When I said he eventually came back to his senses, I meant relatively speaking. But Matt always was an odd stick, so you have to keep that in mind. Carrie should have a copy of the article around here that you can look at if you've a mind." He gave a wave of his hand and left Bobby and Ellen staring at each other intently.

"Y'all don't look so worried," Carrie soothed. "All these boys have come around eventually. And now that he's got family here, well, he'll remember everything in no time. You'll see." She smiled at them and guided them into the Sam's room.

Bobby and Ellen came up on either side of Sam's bed and looked down at his young, slack face. Ellen ran her fingers through his hair lightly. "Sam honey. It's Ellen. Can you open your eyes for me?" She sighed slightly at the lack of response.

"What's all this?" Bobby asked, nodding at the machinery Sam was hooked up to. "I thought the doctor said he was stable."

"He is. The heart monitor is just a precaution because he's unconscious. We've been monitoring him all day and his vitals are just fine." She checked Sam's blood pressure again and made some minor adjustment to his IV. "I'll let you folks settle in," she said as she prepared to leave.

"Say, Carrie," Bobby said. "Could you bring me the copy of that newspaper article? I could use a laugh right about now," he said, trying to sound light.

"Sure thing," she quipped and shut the door on her way out.

They were quiet for a moment while Ellen softly smoothed Sam's hair back, and gently cupped his hand in her own. She noticed the healing binding-link that had been burnt onto his arm, a discomfiting reminder of the demon that had stolen Sam's body, tortured Jo, and shot Dean just a little over a week ago. Her finger lightly traced over the strange symbol. "Now, Sam honey, you need to open your eyes, y'hear me? It's Ellen. Bobby 'n me are here and you're safe."

"Sam, that you?" Bobby asked as he pulled a flask from his shirt pocket and splashed it on the unconscious man. He looked at Ellen as she goggled. "What? Just checkin'. We got to be sure, Ellen," he shrugged. Satisfied that Sam wasn't possessed, he relaxed a little and bent down toward the boy's ear. "Hey Sam, it's Bobby. Open your damn-fool eyes."

"Smooth, Singer," Ellen's voice crackled and popped with fatigue and humor. "You want him to wake up or not? Boy's more'n likely to stay put just to spite your grumpy ass." She sat down and sighed. "Well, shit. It's gonna be a long night."

**O**

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Ow, Mama, it's a good thing he ain't awake. He'd be a-hootin' and a-hollerin' right about now!" Florabel said. Her blue eyes widened as her mother fished out another steaming hot towel from the pot of water with a stick. "Ouchie!" she gasped as Emma draped it over the bullet hole. There was no change in the man's breathing and he didn't so much as flinch against the scalding water. The steaming fluid mixed with the pus and dried blood. It ran down his chest in a little rivulet, leaving a milky-pink trail behind that Florabel kept daubing at.

"Catch that water with the towel, Florabel. Don't let it hit the bed," Emma instructed. "We'll let this set for a spell while it loosens the infection. She bent over the nightstand and lit the kerosene lamp. It wasn't even noon yet, but between the blowing dust outside and Jeb blocking the window with wet sheets, it was shaded and dim in the room. Shadows sprung up and flickered on the walls as Emma situated the lamp as close as possible to their work area.

"This should keep out the worst of it, Em," Jeb said as he anchored the wet sheet to the wall and stepped away. "Last thing we need is for this boy to come up with Dust Pneumonia on top of everything else."

"That's real good, Jeb," Emma said as she pulled off the cooling wet rag. She set it aside and immediately fished out another steaming, hot rag and replaced it. Florabel scurried to dam the new spring that trickled down his chest.

"If you don't need me for anything else, I reckon I'll go check the jackrabbit traps. Varmits are like a dadgum plague. I ain't never seen so many. Dust killed everything that kills them, I reckon. Folks in town is talkin' about organizin' big ol' jackrabbit drives this spring and trappin' 'em by the truckloads and do away with 'em that a-way. Might be a fun way to spend some Sunday."

"Can I come, Old Jeb?" Florabel asked excitedly.

"If'n your mama say's it's OK, we'll go sometime this spring," Jeb assured her. "Anyway, I best git to gittin'. I need to milk Penny, too. She ain't been touched yet today. I reckon the eggs still need fetchin', seeing as Florabel was tendin' our guest in the barn. After that I'll come and heat up some cornbread and beans for us, since we missed breakfast."

"Oh Jeb, I'm sorry," Emma fretted.

"Ain't no trouble, Em. You got your hands full and then some. I'll git to it and let you know when it's ready. Florabel you gittin' hungry, doll?" he asked.

"I been hungry since last night!" she announced. "My tummy's growlin' like a monster!"

"All right, then," Jeb said. "Got to keep your strength up, little nurse, or you won't have nothin' left to give your patient."

"I ain't a nurse, Old Jeb! I'm a doctor!" Florabel insisted as she straightened her posture and ceremoniously wiped the blood and pus from the sick man's chest.

"A girl doctor? Why, I never did hear of such nonsense," Jeb snorted. "But I'll fix you up some lunch just the same," he said with a wink.

"Why cain't girls be doctors, Mama?" Florabel prodded after Jeb left.

"Hush, now. Don't be askin' so many questions," Emma said and scooted to the other side of the bed and dipped another cloth in cold water this time. "C'mere Florabel, I'm gonna show you how to cool him down. We need to keep his shoulder warm, but we have to cool the rest of him down to help his fever. So while I clean his shoulder I want you to take this cloth and keep wiping his face, arms and chest. He could wake up and be no more'n an idiot for the rest of his life because his fever got too high. You never want a fever to go on too long or too hot. So we got to keep him wiped down."

"OK, Mama." Florabel set to work while her mother began to irrigate the wound, squeezing out the infection and saturating it first with whiskey and then with iodine. Florabel was quiet for some time as she painstakingly wiped the man down. She was seemingly lost in her work when she suddenly ventured, "I ain't never seen a man with such fine muscles before. Have you noticed 'em, Mama?"

Emma was caught off guard and choked a little as she flushed crimson. Despite herself and her Christian intentions, she had most definitely noticed. She bit her lip to kill the girlish smile that threatened to overtake her face. "Don't matter how big a man's muscles is, just how hard and how honest he works with 'em," she chided. She poured some more whiskey into the bullet hole and pressed a cloth against it.

"Well, I suppose, but I like his muscles, Mama. I bet he could pick up Penny and toss her over his shoulder, if he'd a mind to," she boasted.

"You think so?" Emma chuckled.

"Uh huh," Florabel affirmed and watched her mother with keen interest. Emma took some small scraps of fabric that had been boiled, and she packed the bullet hole with them, pouring more iodine over the wound and placing the bread and milk poultice on top. She overlaid one more hot cloth on top of everything and let it sit there.

"That was a mighty well put together poultice, Florabel," Emma complimented. "Now we'll leave this here and replace the cloth as often as we can to keep this nice and warm so the poultice works faster. We'll keep the rest of him cool and then with time, prayer and patience he might just pull through."

"He'll pull through, Mama," she said decisively. "You'll see."

**O**

_February 11, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Bobby put down the newspaper, Cimarron County's finest, and only, periodical and yawned. It was past 2:00 a.m. and Sam hadn't stirred or made a sound. Ellen was gently holding the boy's hand and sitting half asleep. "Well, looks like those boys came lookin' for a vengeful spirit," Bobby said, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

Ellen jolted awake and repositioned herself. "You ever see a vengeful spirit wipe folks' memories?"

"No," Bobby agreed. "But this Matt fellow wasn't just talkin' about a flickerin' spirit. He said there was a ghostly image of someone, but he was then attacked by a spinnin' black cloud. And it was the wind that knocked him off the scaffold."

"So we're talkin' some kind of elemental, maybe? Elementals can have a crazy, unpredictable effect on people if they get too close," Ellen suggested.

"Could be," Bobby said. "But where Dean got to in all this is beyond me. Something big happened. He'd 'a called or gotten to Sam somehow if he could. Ain't no way he'd let Sam be taken to the hospital without him. So he's got to be in the same state as Sam, I'm bettin', but why they ain't found him I'll never know." He stood up and put on his jacket. "I'm going to go take a look at the site and see if I can't spot Dean and get his senseless ass in here. You stay with Sam in case he wakes up. If this is the same thing as the others, I dunno if we'll be enough to get him to remember who in the hell he is. From what Doc said it sounds like you need prodding from folks who are especially close."

"Bobby Singer, you be careful, now. Don't go in there half-cocked. These boys are good hunters and look what happened to them. I ain't got time to be rompin' down memory lane with you trying to get you to remember all the damn-fool things you'n me have done over the years. So just you keep safe." She turned to Sam and patted his hand lightly. "I swear, I dunno how these boys get into such messes all the time."

"Them boys are just experiencin' some of that famous 'Winchester Luck'…"

They both nodded. "Shitty," they said at the same time.

**O**

_February 10, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The wind shore through Slaid's greasy locks, tossing his hair about in mad, angry waves—a heartless imitation of the graceful, wind-blown wheat fields that had once blanketed the land. He looked up into the mid-day sun. Strong, high winds had sucked the dust into the atmosphere where it acted as a gritty filter between the sun and the plains, causing the sun to shine pale and vague despite the cloudless sky. Slaid leaned against the broken barn door, casually cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails. A trace of a wry, self-satisfied smile glanced across his face as he looked back at the farmhouse. Jeb had already come and gone after milking the cow. No one else would be bothering him today, he was certain of that. He casually pushed himself away from the broken barn door. Penny lowed mournfully when she saw him, twitching her ears and shifting her heavy hooves. She cast her soft, liquid eyes to the ground in search of hay.

Standing just inside the broken entry-way, he examined the damage and thoughtfully ran his twitching fingers over the broken support beams and collapsed walls. He ambled over to the back of the barn where the stranger had been found. He swished his foot around, moving the hay and strange pieces of wood away until a trap door was revealed. Pulling the door open, he scurried down the ladder and lit the small kerosene lamp he'd left there the night before.

The room had been used as a root cellar until dust, wind and drought had stripped the fertility from the land, leaving them with nothing left to store. The earthen floor was haphazardly coated with sawdust and strewn with empty crates and barrels. Slaid walked across the small cellar and stopped at the grizzly, makeshift altar. Offerings of herbs and grain alcohol lay in bowls. These, along with decomposed animal parts and candles were placed strategically within strange, unintelligible symbols painted in chicken blood. The dead chicken was still hanging from a metal hook directly over the offerings, entrails dangling like a macabre festoon. The blood, long drained, was lying in a crusting puddle on the altar below. The smell of its decaying corpse hung pungent in the air in such a small, enclosed space. Slaid breathed it in deeply and smiled.

All in all he was quite pleased with himself. "Hala!" he chortled. "Power," he gloated and raised his arms and flexed his thin, stringy muscles. "It worked. You came," he smiled. "Soon I learn to control." He wagged a thin, greedy finger as he tutted. "You will work for Slaid, ya? Make lady and little girl mine? Make them love Slaid and obey?" He rubbed his hands together excitedly. The wind demon would soon bless him ten-fold. Everything had worked amazingly well. The only unexpected and inexplicable complication was that man showing up right as he had performed the summoning ritual, seemingly manifested by the storm itself. It was definitely not something he'd prepared for, but he wouldn't worry about him. If the fever didn't take him, he'd find something that would.

_**To Be Continued… **_


	3. One Day Old

_**A/N: This story was painstakingly beta'd by Numpty, NongPradu, and Beckydaspatz. If you are ever looking for an amazing story to read, please look them up. It was their incredible talent that drew me to them. **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes and children in peril. See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers.**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 3: One Day Old**

**O**

_February 11, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Sheets of rain pattered against the tarp that dangled haphazardly in front of the gaping hole at the back of the building. On any other hunt, Bobby might have taken an amused beat to note that he was currently smack dab in the middle of the worn _It Was a Dark and Stormy Night_ cliché, but right now he was too goddamned worried. Bobby adjusted the flashlight in one hand while holding his sawed-off in the other, quickly checking to make sure there were two rounds of rock-salt in the chamber ready to go. Snapping the gun shut, he lifted the tarp and slipped inside the dark, unstable structure. The hunter pointed the flashlight up toward the splintered rafters and swept the beam back down, noting the chaotic damage that the building had sustained as he went. He painstakingly picked his way across the split joists and broken beams that littered the floor at odd angles. The force responsible for the damage seemed to have been unpredictable and erratic at best, since there was no organization to the jumbled debris.

The unsettling quiet was broken only by the plaintive, gusting taps of the rain on the tarp. Bobby cleared his throat and called out Dean's name again, but he was no longer expecting an answer. He'd been searching the construction site from end to end for over an hour now, and he'd heard nothing—living or dead. The silence was disquieting, though, and he felt the need to cut the sudden tension in the air. Casting the beam of light down on the floor, he followed the wall-frame, illuminating each and every corner with disappointing results. He sighed. "Where the hell'd you get to, kid?" he said, his voice thick and grizzled with anxiety. He set the flashlight down on its end so that the shaft of light pointed toward the ceiling, creating some soft, diffused light to work by. Bobby reached for his cell phone and hit the redial button, stifling another sigh and listening intently. He stiffened just before the call switched to voice mail. The hunter wasn't sure he had really heard right or not. He redialed. This time there was no mistaking it. _Smoke On The Water_ was playing somewhere nearby.

Bobby dialed again, picking the flashlight up and following the tinny music. He kicked a large tarp out of the way and rifled through the debris on the floor. He dialed the number again as soon as it went to voicemail. Honing in on a particular area, he swept the light over a nearby debris pile. It was close by, now. After another redial, he heaved pieces of wood out of the way and noticed the soft glow of a closed cell phone. Bobby picked it up and flashed his light around, hoping Dean would be nearby. He wasn't. Flicking the light repeatedly over the floor until he had to admit defeat, he despondently put the phone in his pocket. "Aw hell," he huffed out. A glint caught his eye and he moved some more scraps of wood around, retrieving Dean's Colt 1911 from the rubble. No way would the young hunter have ever left this behind voluntarily. He checked the clip and stuck the gun in his waist-band with a sigh. The exhalation smoked out unnaturally icy-white. It had been cold. But it hadn't been _that_ cold.

Reflexively, Bobby spun around and found himself nose to nose with the stuttering image of a pale, grinning specter. Just as the hunter was aiming his shotgun, the entity raised its hand, releasing a burst of energy. Bobby's hand jolted with a static charge and the gun was abruptly yanked into the air behind him. Without missing a beat or even bothering to look where the gun clattered on the floorboards, the seasoned hunter reached into his waist-band, pulled out Dean's Colt and fired. "Iron bullets, asshole," he gruffed as the last vestige of the surprised spirit disintegrated into a spiraling mist.

The hunter retrieved his shotgun from the corner where it had been thrown and moved to get out of the building as fast as he could. The ghostly form flickered in front of him again and a blast of air knocked him off balance, tossing him indignantly on his ass a few feet away. The spirit grinned and began chanting strangely. Immediately, a strong wind began to blow inside the building, the chilling susurrus of the foreign incantation plainly audible as part of the swirling air itself. Bobby quickly aimed and shot the spirit with rock-salt, causing it to dissipate, but it had no effect on the black, rotating vortex that it had just summoned. The droning murmur continued to deepen until the hunter could feel the vibrations of it roll through his body. Static electricity started to run spiny fingers through the framework of the building, another old-time, matinee cliché he might have noted but for the very real imminent threat to his health. The harder the wind was thrown outward from the cloud, the more pronounced the electric pulses became. The hunter continued crawling on his hands and knees toward the flapping tarp that covered the most obvious exit. Looking back, he could see the dark, rotating mass take more solid shape as it advanced. Sibilant imprecations continued to echo around the room. The words remained incomprehensible, but they were growing louder along with the sudden clatter of boards and other construction materials as they became airborne from the malicious wind. Small jabs of electricity jolted outward from the black mass, stretching their white-blue fingers toward Bobby as the mass moved toward him.

"Oh hell, no you don't!" Playing the role of '_the clueless victim'_ was one cliché he'd never be a part of. Bobby warded off the thing and moved as fast as he could. Just as he reached the tarp, the leering ghost reappeared and began to stutter and fluctuate from location to location around the room. It appeared to overlap itself strangely, seemingly manifesting itself in two areas of the room at the same time. The dual images bounced and flickered as the savage wind continued to approach the old hunter. Both Bobby and the tarp suddenly broke free of the building and went sprawling onto the prairie floor below. Bolting up as though he were half his age, he sprinted away as fast as he could. He heard wood rending and splintering loudly behind him, but he didn't bother to look back. Yet, even as he ran he could still pick out the chilling, whispered incantation. Bobby tried to memorize as much of it as he could as he hauled ass away from the building.

**O**

_February 11, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

It wasn't quite dawn when Florabel felt her mother's comforting hand stroking her face and calling her name. She'd fallen asleep at the foot of the bed, cool cloth still wrapped in her small, capable fingers. She noticed that a warm blanket had been wrapped snugly around her, and truth to tell she wasn't quite ready to get out from underneath it. The air in the room was crisp. She breathed in the cold air and immediately coughed up a mouthful of gritty sputum. Her lungs always hated mornings.

"Come on, Florabel, git on up. Morning won't wait," Emma said softly in the glow of the lamp.

"S'cold," Florabel drowsed out, clumsily rubbing a sticky eye with the back of her hand.

Emma patted her groggy daughter and sat her up. "Well now, the faster you move, the warmer you'll be." Florabel yawned and blinked stupidly at her mother who, by looks of it, hadn't slept at all. Her hair was falling from her braided hair-knot in thick, careless tendrils, and even though her eyes hadn't smiled in months, they looked particularly sad and tired this morning. Florabel suddenly remembered their patient and feared the worst. Her eyes darted to the prone figure.

"Is he…?" she asked with her lip quivering.

"He's the same, Florabel. Now, I need you to go take care of the chickens and make sure the house is swept of dust. Once you done that, you can come back and help me tend him and keep him cool. His fever is still mighty high."

Florabel yawned again and scratched. "OK, Mama. Will you call me if'n he wakes up? I don't want him to be afraid 'cause he's in a strange house," she said. The young child hopped off the bed and headed for the door.

"Florabel, wait. Come here. We need to take care of that cough of yours," Emma said as she reached for the items she'd prepared. The girl blanched when she saw what was coming and panicked.

"Mama, no! Please," Florabel protested pitifully, her face grimacing as she anticipated the unpleasant ritual to come. Emma was forced to grab her by the wrist and physically drag her over to the chair, because the child had quite literally dug her heels in. Her little chest heaved with a muffled sob. "Mama, I hate it! Argh!" she cried.

Emma was past exhausted and her patience was spent. "Florabel Mae Livingston, you stop that right this very instant!" she demanded with an edgy sternness that she probably would not have indulged in had she not been so tired. Florabel leaned against her mother with a defeated whimper and wiped at the big tears pooling in her lashes. "Shame, Florabel," Emma continued while she added a couple of drops of turpentine to a spoonful of sugar and fed it to her snuffling daughter. The girl bravely tried to swallow the revolting concoction, but she still coughed and gagged a couple of times before she was able to keep it down successfully. "After Henry?" Emma dipped her fingers into a jar of greasy, skunk fat; the fetid odor had both their eyes watering. She added several drops of turpentine to the oily sludge and worked the two into a pasty mash with her fingers. Florabel started to cry brokenly from the scolding and the smell. "And your papa?" She rubbed the remedy on Florabel's neck and slid her hand down under her daughter's shirt and overalls, smearing the foul mixture on her chest and rubbing it into her skin briskly. "I won't have it, Florabel."

Florabel's body jerked a few times with hiccupping sobs that she suppressed the best she could. She didn't mean to shame her mother, but she really hated the taste of turpentine and the smell of skunk oil. "I'm sorry, Mama," she said as stoically as she could.

Emma softened. It broke her heart to subject her daughter to a treatment that she herself found just as unpalatable. In the end, though, there was no way she'd ever survive burying another child, so if turpentine, sugar and a little skunk oil prevented that, then it was a small price to pay. Nevertheless, she dabbed at Florabel's tears and hugged her daughter close, the odor of the skunk oil shriveling her nose. "I know you are, baby girl. But we have to be brave sometimes even when it's real hard to be, right?" Florabel nodded and snuffled, finding solace as she snuggled against her mother's soft neck. "Now you be quick like a jackrabbit, and then we'll change his dressing together." Emma knew that offering her daughter a chance to play doctor would take away some of the sting and hurt. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Mama. I'll be quick, quick, quick!" she promised. She ran and grabbed the pail and the broom. Fiercely on-task, she swept up as much dust as she could, scooping it up and tossing it out the back door. It seemed like she was sweeping up more and more dust every day. And while she had never really known anything else, she could tell that it was getting worse. The dust and the wind were ubiquitous and inescapable. She couldn't remember the last day that the wind hadn't blown wildly. On her way back in, she looked out the windows and noticed that some of the glue-stripping had buckled and come loose at some point. She knew that she and her mother would be fixing that soon. The _Blow Season_ was upon them, and if a black blizzard came up, they'd be no safer inside than out if the house wasn't properly weather-stripped.

As soon as the dust was under control, at least for the day, she hunted for the centipedes that plagued the house by the hundreds, pulling up a few choice floorboards that always seemed to house dozens of the pests. She placed an old schoolbook over the pail to prevent the insects from crawling back out. She scrabbled, grabbed and corralled as many of the bugs as quickly as her hands could to do it.

Once she thought she had a sufficient meal for the chickens, Florabel dusted off her hands, grabbed the pail and loped down the path to the chicken coop. The wind was particularly strong this morning, so she kept her eyes closed as much as she could to protect them from the billowing dust. Gritty wave after gritty wave assaulted her from behind, forcing her to readjust for balance and find a better bid on the ground, her slight build being no match for the harsh, unrelenting gusts. Once she reached the chicken coop, she was protected somewhat by the barn. The structure groaned and creaked with each gust. Sheltered from the wind, Florabel relaxed a little and spotted her favorite chicken. "Morning Molly!" she whooped. "Lordy above, Molly, I been so busy, you just cain't imagine!" She offered her excuse for not visiting the bird as she normally did in the afternoons. "You'll never guess what happened! A man got hurt in our barn. I found him and I'm doctorin' him!" she crowed. She tossed centipedes to the chickens and watched their feeding frenzy as they clucked and gossiped madly with each other.

"Big, Devil fighter made it through the night, ya?" Slaid's voice sent a shiver down her back and she folded in on herself a little. He came up behind her and casually leaned on the fencing. He poked his fingers through the chicken-coop wiring and smiled down at the girl.

"He's still sleepin', and I got to git back to him. I just came to feed Molly and the others," she said and quickly started dumping the centipedes out.

"Ah, ya?" Slaid drawled and regarded the chickens with languid disinterest. "Which one is Molly?"

Florabel inched away from him and timorously pointed to her favorite chicken. "That one right there," she said.

"Ah, pretty red one. She make good pie some day?" Slaid said, a hungry gleam in his eye as he rubbed his stomach and belched. He laughed at the girl's disgusted expression.

"You ain't a-eatin' Molly! Mama promised that she'll keep her as a layer until she goes to Jesus on her own," Florabel seethed at the man. "And then we's givin' her a proper Christian send off. She ain't gonna be pie."

"Maybe, maybe. Maybe some chickens just die for no reason, though. It can happen, ya? Jesus might just swoop down and…" he pantomimed wringing the chicken's neck and biting a chicken leg. Slaid laughed again. He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers frenetically as though he was just stating facts. "Or maybe big bad wolf comes and eats her," he growled and made a gnashing sound. Florabel stood defiantly against him.

"Ain't nothin' gonna happen to the chickens. Old Jeb keeps their yard as tight as a drum. Ain't no coyotes or varmits gittin' in," Florabel scathed as she held her empty pail defensively in front of her. She took a few tentative steps backwards. "I gotta scoot. Mama tol' me to be quick about it. We got to change the man's dressings. You go on back to the bunkhouse. We don't need you today," she said hastily.

"Be careful of the Devil fighter, now," he warned. "Maybe he'll break the house like he did the barn. Slaid will protect you and your mama if you let him. Like you were my own." He promised and patted his heart.

Florabel looked at him dubiously. "He ain't a Devil fighter. Mama says his name is Mr. Hetfield. His arm is hurt is all. And he's gonna be my pal when he gits to feelin' fit agin."

"Better pals than you 'n me?" he tsk'd, his simpering moue feigned disappointment and jealousy.

Florabel wavered, not knowing quite what to say. She didn't want to get in trouble for giving him sass, but she wanted to tell him that they weren't ever going to be 'pals' and she didn't need his protection. She and her mother were just fine on their own, thank you very much. She just shrugged and looked at the farmhouse. "I gotta git. Mr. Hetfield needs coolin' off," she hedged and ran towards the house, toiling against the wind as she retreated. She passed Jeb on his way to milk Penny.

"You's full of energy this morning, Miss Flibbertigibbet!" Jeb laughed as the child raced by.

"I cain't dawdle, Old Jeb. I got to git to doctorin'!" She waved and ran on.

"Didja remember to collect the eggs this morning?" he called and watched the child stop dead and look at her empty pail.

"Ugh! I forgot," she said, waffling as she looked over towards Slaid who was still standing by the coop.

Jeb held out his hand. "Well, give me the pail, Miss Doctor, an' I'll see they git collected. C'mon now," he coaxed as she stood, still deliberating with herself and looking at Slaid. She looked at Jeb and ran back to him, handing him the pail.

"Thanks Old Jeb. I'm obliged," she grinned and ran toward the house.

"Lord 'a mercy, child, I can smell that skunk oil from here," the old man hooted after her before turning and heading to the barn with a grin.

Slaid watched the exchange between the old man and the young girl. Jeb passed him with an amiable nod. "Don't be lookin' at that child like an old wolf, Slaid. She already thinks yer some fearsome monster. Let's you 'n me go check the jackrabbit traps after the cow's milked. Them girls need some meat. Florabel is fixin' to disappear if she don't git something to stick to her bones better 'n what little cornbread there is," he said as he headed into the barn. Slaid nodded and turned to give Molly a wink and a smile before ambling off to join Jeb in the barn.

Florabel was panting when she barreled up the steps and tore open the door. She winced as it banged loudly behind her. "Sorry Mama!" she apologized and coughed up some wet dust.

"Florabel…" She heard her mother's stern, weary voice. She found her mother in the kitchen boiling more water.

"Sorry," Florabel said again. "I'm all done, Mama."

Emma handed a stack of bandages and linens to her. "You take these in and run a cold cloth over him, and I'll be in once this has boiled," Emma said.

"OK, Mama," Florabel's back arched under the weight of the sheets and linens. She could barely see over her burden as she entered the room and dumped the items in a chair. "Whew!" she let out a grunt of relief. She turned to her next task and stopped short. Her eyes went wide, and a smile sprung up her dusty cheeks. "Well, howdy there, pal!" she sung out.

Mr. Hetfield's eyes were open.

**O**

_February 11, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"It's something all right," Bobby said as he wrote notes on the back of a hospital pamphlet. "I need to get to a computer and see if I can't suss out what it means. I can't even make out what language it is, yet. But there is definitely a spirit, and it's somehow controlling an elemental of some sort. A nasty one, too.

"And Dean?" Ellen still gripped Sam's hand in her own as she turned to face the old hunter.

"Found his cell-phone," he said pulling it out and handing it to her. "But he ain't anywhere around, Ellen. It's like he just disappeared off the face of the earth. Something ain't right about this. That thing was creating a lot of energy, and the spirit started to shimmer and show up in two different places at the same time."

"Bilocation?" Ellen husked. "That takes a real powerful spirit, Bobby. I don't think this is just 'Uncle Joe' with a chip on his shoulder that we're dealing with."

"I know it, Ellen. And we can't just salt-and-burn the thing even if we knew who he was and where he was buried, because we have to banish the elemental, and we can't do _that_ until we find out what happened to Dean."

The door opened and a young nurse with a round, Shirley Temple-esque face, complete with dimples and flawless complexion, entered. "Morning y'all. I'm Abby. I'm here to get some vitals, if y'all don't mind."

"Certainly," Ellen said getting up and moving away from the bed. She went over to stand with Bobby. He handed her the written incantation to see if she recognized it. She looked at it and gave him a negative shake of her head."

"Hey there, Sweetheart. You with us, now?" Abby said suddenly. Bobby and Ellen looked over and noticed that Sam's eyes were open. They moved to the other side of the bed and watched as the nurse tried to rouse him. "C'mon darlin', want to look at me?"

Sam's eyes were half-mast and staring at nothing. The nurse opened them a little wider to get a better look at them. They never moved or changed focus. They seemed to be fixed on a non-existent target about three feet in front of him. Bobby snapped his fingers in front of the boy's face. "Sam, c'mon boy. Up and at 'em." He looked at the nurse.

"I'm gonna go get Doc," she said. "Try not to worry. I'll be right back."

Ellen scrubbed her face with both her palms. She bent down and moved into what should be Sam's field of vision. "Sam, honey. Can you look at me? Sam," she patted his face, but nothing happened.

"Boy's plumb catatonic," Bobby shook his head. "It's like them others. If he don't have his memories when he snaps out of it, I hope to high-hell we'll be enough tinder and flint to get the fires goin' again."

"This ain't good, Bobby. We need him to remember as soon as possible so we can try and find out what happened to Dean, if he even knows. I'm afraid we'll need Dean to get his memories back, but we need his memories back to find Dean. It's a Catch-22 shit-storm if ever there was one."

Doc Haffner rounded the doorway briskly. "So our boy's awake?" he blustered.

"If you can call this 'awake'," Bobby said pointing to the young hunter. "He ain't twitched a muscle or said word one, yet."

Doc came near and examined the patient. He checked his pupils and read the heart-monitor read-out."

"Ain't no response from the monitor," Abby said. "It's like he's still out, only he ain't. Machinery says he's sleepin' but his eyes say otherwise, just like the others." Her last words were said softly, for the doctor's ears only. Bobby and Ellen caught them, though, and held an unspoken conversation of their own as the doctor and nurse resettled their patient.

"Well now, it looks as though this boy is gonna be a clean slate," Doc drawled unconcernedly. "He'll come around, though. You'll just have to keep at him until he's been jarred loose again. I expect it won't take but a day or two with you good folks around to help." Doc scratched his chin. "Well, I'll be by later. Don't think there will be much doin' today. If he's like the others, he'll just lay quiet until tomorrow. You folks best get settled and get some sleep while you can. Boy's gonna need you both in the next couple of days."

Bobby looked at Ellen a long, hard moment after the doctor left them alone. He took another look at Sam who quietly stared blankly at nothing. "Well, in the words of Dean Winchester himself…_Sonofabitch_!" Bobby chafed.

**O**

_February 11, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Cain't y'talk, there, Mr. Hetfield?" Florabel crawled up on the bed and put her face near his. "Aw, c'mon, pal, I know you must be real scared, but me and Mama and Old Jeb, we ain't a-gonna hurt ya none." She patted him kindly to show she meant no harm and then enthusiastically pried his eyelid open as wide as it would go and put her own eye within inches of his. "You in there, Mister? Hello!" she called out. She let his eyelid drop back to its relaxed, half-open position. Florabel sighed and deflated with disappointment. "I guess you's an idiot now," she said rather brokenly. "Fever got too high, I reckon." The diagnosis crushed her. She snuffled back her grief and guilt. "I tried real hard to keep the fever down, y'got to believe me. I tried. But they's only so much you can do," she tried to explain…to him and to herself.

"Florabel, what are you goin' on about?" Emma asked breathlessly as she carried the steaming pot of water into the room. She immediately noticed the man's open eyes and hastily put the pot down, nearly sloshing the water out. "Florabel, why didn't you call me, child?" She put her hand to the man's forehead. "Can you hear me, Mr. Hetfield?" she called lightly. He made no response. She looked at her daughter. "He say anything?"

"No Mama. I think he's an idiot now," she said woefully. "He won't say nothin' and won't even take a gander around the room. He just lays there a-starin', but I dunno what he's a-lookin' at." The blue of her eyes were swimming with sadness.

"Now, you just be calm, Florabel. Mind what I said. We ain't gonna mourn for someone we don't know. Now don't hover so close and let me take a look." Emma sat on the bed and bent close, waving her hand in front of his eyes and patting his face lightly.

"I done that, Mama. I opened his eyes good and big but they ain't seein' me," she said. "I don't want him to be an idiot, Mama. He was gonna be my good pal," she said, disheartened.

"We don't know he's an idiot, yet. He's fevered and wrung, and I bet he's sore and tired to boot. Let's give him some time to come awake fully. Fever can make folks mighty confused and dreamy." She put her cool hand to his cheek and frowned. "This is a stubborn fever. I hope that poultice starts a-workin' soon." She rubbed a hand over her own exhausted face and lightly massaged the back of her neck.

"You look tired, Mama," Florabel said. "Ain't you slept?"

"I'll sleep later. C'mon now, let's see if we cain't git him to drink a few sips. He needs to drink today no matter what. It'll help to cool him from the inside." She poured a small glass of water and waited a moment for the dusty sediment to sink to the bottom. She sat him up just a little and leaned his head back. "Florabel, you help me hold his head like so while I git the water in him." Her daughter did as she was asked, her face a study in deep concentration and attention. Emma tipped the glass to his lips and poured a little in. The first attempt had the water leaking right back out and down his chin. She moved his head back just a little more and tried again. This time the water hit the back of his throat, and he swallowed reflexively. "Look at that, good work, Florabel," Emma beamed at her daughter. They repeated the task four more times and then settled him back down. "We'll keep doin' that every hour or so. It'll help his fever and keep his thirst down. You start coolin' him off with the cloth while I change the dressing. Then, we can rest a spell," she said.

Florabel quietly hummed as she resumed her ministrations. She watched his glassy eyes fixate out beyond her and hold on to something that wasn't there. The young girl kept glancing in the direction that his eyes were pointed, expecting to see something maybe, but it was just the same, plain room as ever. "I sure hope he ain't an idiot, Mama," she mused.

"Me too, baby girl," Emma said as she reached for the whiskey bottle. "You stand back, now, Florabel. If he's even half awake he's likely to thrash about when I pour this. And even if he don't mean nothin' by it, you could git hurt." Florabel slipped off the bed and stood a good distance away. Emma put a sturdy hand on the man's shoulder to hold it down and braced herself before she poured. The sick man made absolutely no movement and his eyes never so much as quivered or changed position. He remained lax and continued to stare vacantly ahead of him. "Well that just beats all," Emma said bewilderedly. "I'm glad he ain't feelin' pain, but it don't make much sense, neither. I never did see a fever take on so."

Both girls jumped when Jeb knocked on the door frame. "How's the patient?" he asked.

"Land, Jeb, you startled me," Emma twitted. "His eyes is open, but he ain't a whit heedful yet. I don't know if'n this is the fever or if this is somethin' we cain't fix." She looked at Jeb and nodded worriedly towards Florabel. "But we cain't git upset if he decides he wants to go through them Pearly Gates, ain't that right, Jeb?" Jeb gave her a knowing look.

"That's right, Em," he agreed. "Why, sometimes folks catch a glimpse of Heaven, an' they ain't no 'suadin' them to come on back, 'cause it's so restful and nice there. They's diamonds and gold on the front gate alone. And angels are a-sittin' there strummin' their harps purty as you please when you walk in," he said passionately while Florabel listened, transfixed. "So if'n this poor boy wants to go be with Jesus and Moses, why, we won't fuss about it." Emma nodded her gratitude and turned to finish cleaning the wound.

"See, Florabel? We'll do our part, but sometimes Heaven is too good to pass up. Ain't no faultin' anyone for wantin' to stay there," she said. She examined the poultice and made sure that it was still moist enough for her satisfaction. "This should start workin' best in a day or two," she said as she set it on the wound and covered it with a steaming cloth.

"I reckon so, Mama. But it ain't right for God to put us down here just so's we can go runnin' off to Heaven first chance we git." She dipped the cloth in cold water and continued her methodical cooling. "But Heaven sure does sound purty, that's for sure."

"It sure does," Emma soothed and stretched. Jeb turned his attention to the young woman.

"I brought some jackrabbits. Thought I'd clean 'em good and make some stew for us and some broth for the patient if he can swaller it," he said. "Slaid went off to town to play cards, but I expect he'll be back before supper tonight."

"Thank you, Jeb," Emma said. "I'll be out in just a moment to help."

"No you won't. You need to have a good, long rest, Em. Me and Florabel can hold down the fort and keep this feller cooled off for a few hours. By the time you wake up we'll have a good supper ready."

Emma smiled and yawned. She was bone tired. "All right, Jeb," she agreed. "Wake me if anything changes." She got up and left the old man and Florabel together.

Florabel pensively continued her task, watching close to see if the man's eyes moved or showed a spark of thought. Jeb looked down on her kindly. "Cheer up, Florabel. This boy is gonna be all right one way or t'other. He'll either be with God and Jesus or he'll be with us. I count him a lucky feller either way." Florabel nodded but didn't look very convinced. "He'll be all right," Jeb said again. "Don't you worry. No need to be walkin' around as though you got a dark, black cloud hangin' over your head."

**O**

_February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

As far as he knew, the first thought he ever had was that something was different. At first he couldn't define the difference or compare it to anything else, because the black, gyrating mass with its monotonous, purling whispers and incessant discharge of energy that whiffled through him relentlessly was all he had ever known. How long that had been didn't matter, because he had no sense of time or its passage. There was no way to define it or quantify it, because he could neither define nor quantify himself. Not yet. There came a point in his existence, however, that he did start to measure things somewhat. A gust of wind would switch directions and beat on him from a different angle. The murmurs would incant in a slightly different pitch and then lapse back to their original tenor. The pulse of blue-white electricity that ran up and down his own body or _mass_ would fluctuate and move from top to bottom as opposed to from bottom to top. And for a long while _that_ was all he knew, and it was the only difference he could perceive. But this—this was definitely not a variation. It was new data, raw and harsh, and he didn't know what to make of it. The black vortex that was his only base of experience gave way and a different aspect of existence assaulted him.

Light.

He shrunk away from it, because it was different. It frightened him, but it was unavoidable. As he experienced this new information he began to discern one shape from another, and slowly, ever so slowly, he started to make some lost connections. _That's a ceiling. A window. A person._ Synapses began to fire and he was able to discern even more information. _That's a woman. That's a man. He has a beard. I'm a man. The woman is caressing me—comforting me. The man is speaking, but I can't understand a word. Words. Words are used to communicate. Nouns, verbs, prepositions are meaningful._ More networks fired, and he was able to listen to the words and translate them into meaningful thought.

"That's it, Sam. Keep looking at me. Can you hear me, kid?"

_That's a question. I can hear, but I don't know how to speak. _ His jaw moved and even more connections were stirred, he'd once done this quite often and without much effort. He took a breath and forced air through his voice box. The result was a strange, guttural surge. _You just moaned. Moaning does not equal speaking, geek boy. Who is it that always says that to me? Move your mouth and force a thought out along with the air._ He tried again. "Guhh," he said. "Gggeek boy," he said proudly. The man and woman simultaneously raised a thing…_an eyebrow_…and looked at each other.

"You callin' me or yourself that?" the man asked and his mouth crinkled upward. _A smile._ "Do you remember your name, son? Can you tell us?"

He thought for moment, waiting for more connections to be made so that he could deliver what was asked of him. At first he didn't know what a name was, but after a few internal adjustments he could recall that people had names. He looked from the man to the woman and back again. He blew out more air through his voice box in anticipation of an answer firing in his head.

"I am…" he said.

"Nothing."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	4. This Morning I Am Born Again

_**A/N: This story has been scrubbed clean by NongPradu, Beckydaspatz and Numpty. I cannot properly express my gratitude for their guidance and encouragement during the writing of this story. You can pass on my thanks by reading any of their stories and leaving them a review.**_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes and children in peril. See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers.**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 4: This Morning I Am Born Again**

**O**

_February 12, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

After more than two days of complete inertia, a change finally occurred, and it began with a slight, undulant tremor. It was close to noon and Florabel was just trying to tame Mr. Hetfield's fever again. As she absently ran her cool cloth over his stomach, a quiver ran through him, enough so that she could feel the vibration through the cloth she held. Still, it had been subtle, so she thought she might have imagined it. She waited for a second response. When none came, she continued to monotonously run the cloth up and down as she had been doing several times a day. Another vibration rolled through him and then another. Soon the ripples became full bouts of shivers one after another, coming on stronger with each spasm. She stopped what she was doing and just watched as the surges came one on top of the other until he was trembling non-stop. The child slid off the bed and watched as he started to move his head and breathe quickly. A feeble moan slipped through his lips.

"Mama! Come quick!" she called out, her shrill, young voice a mixture of fear and excitement. "Mama! Hurry!" She didn't move a muscle until Emma ran in, wiping her wet hands on her apron and pulling it off.

"What's all this?" the woman said, quickly examining the fevered man.

"He's movin' around, Mama. He's shiverin' like he's cold," Florabel said anxiously. More than anything she wanted the man to get better, but any change was a little off-putting after the last two days of total stillness. "Look, his eyes is closed again, Mama. They been just a-starin' since yesterday. What do you reckon it means?"

"I'm not sure, honey. Here, hand me that rag." She took the cloth and dipped it in the cold water and gently ran it over his brow. He immediately began shivering harder and his muscles began involuntarily shrinking away from the cloth as it passed over him. The shivering continued to gain strength until his teeth were rattling like frenzied castanets. His eyelids started to flutter and he moaned out.

"Nnuungghhh." His head lolled as it tried to seek escape from the cold cloth.

"What's happening to him, Mama?" Florabel asked fearfully.

"I think he's just startin' to come around enough to feel how sick he is. We got to be gentle, but we got to keep runnin' that cloth over him no matter how much he protests. He's still gone with fever."

"What's wrong with his eyes?" her daughter asked. His long lashes were twitching and fluttering as the green orbs beneath maundered frenetically, landing nowhere and recognizing nothing. "Is he turning into a monster?" she asked.

Emma looked impatiently at the little girl. "You and your notions about monsters. People ain't monsters, child," she said shaking her head. "He just ain't got control of nothin' yet and his body is just fighting his fever. Don't you mind his eyes, now. Just keep cooling him." She handed the cloth back to Florabel who very tentatively began wiping his face, being sure to stay away from his roaming, quivering eyes. They scared her. She continued to cool him off while stealing furtive, slightly suspicious glances at him. She really hoped he wasn't a monster. He sure was moaning like one, though, she thought.

Emma began removing the layers of towels and bandaging to reveal the gummy, weeping infection. The skin around the wound was so tight and hot that it had begun to crest and separate, the top layer peeling away in white, flaky sheets. She smoothed his brow and quickly pulled the packing out of the inflamed bullet hole. Emma reflexively pulled Florabel to safety as the man lurched up, his eyes flying open in shock. They glistened and welled with an agony he could not properly communicate, and he immediately collapsed onto his side. Florabel moved to try and help him, but Emma pulled her back. "Stay away, Florabel," she commanded. The man was making raspy, inarticulate clicking noises as his throat hitched with the pain. "Run and fetch Old Jeb here and tell him to bring the brown bottle from your papa's old medicine chest. Hurry, Florabel."

"Like a jackrabbit, Mama!" Florabel ran and Emma could hear the screen door slam loudly just a few seconds later.

"Mr. Hetfield," she soothed as she gently pulled him back against the pillows. His body was now covered in a thick sheen of sweat, and he was panting out the beats of his suffering. "I'm so sorry. I won't touch your shoulder until we git you more comfortable," she apologized.

"Ungh…Ungh….Unghhh." His staccato ululations filled Emma with pity and helplessness. Her hand went to her mouth and she shook her head, wondering what god-awful pain a person must be in to make those sounds. His eyes searched the room, falling on nothing solid, as he continued to gasp out in his torment.

"Shhh…shhhh," Emma cooed at him, trying to offer what comfort she could. "It'll be all right, Mr. Hetfield." The man's eyes rolled toward the sound of her voice, but they were unfocused and cloudy with pain. His right hand started to jerk toward his shoulder, instinctively reaching up to protect it. Emma pulled the arm back and held it firmly but gently. "You cain't touch your shoulder, Mr. Hetfield. You got shot. You don't want to make it worse." She continued to hold his hand in her own, but she could feel him repeatedly trying to pull away to the same beat of his doleful cries of pain. His arm tugged against hers, mindlessly trying to reach his shoulder in a base reaction to the pain. "Keep your hand still. You mind me, now," she chided him ever so gently. The young man's eyes began roving again in bewildered, shimmying sweeps, perhaps searching for some means of relief as his voice lilted disconsolately through his chattering teeth. She was never so happy to suddenly hear the screen door slam with a bang. Emma breathed a sigh of relief when she heard Jeb's lanky strides in the kitchen. Florabel scampered in just ahead of him.

"I brought Jeb, Mama. He's bringin' Papa's medicine," she said breathlessly. They must have run all the way from the bunkhouse. Jeb came in a moment later just as out of breath.

"Here you go, Em. I'll help you hold him down," he said coming around to the other side of the bed and helping to position the man.

"Hold his arm down a moment. He's tryin' to git to his shoulder," she said to Jeb. Emma poured a glass of water and handed it to Florabel. "You hold on to that good an' tight and be ready to hand it to me when I ask," she instructed. The woman got right up onto the bed with the sick man, and with Jeb's help she situated Mr. Hetfield so that he was leaning against her. She reached her arm around his good shoulder and tested her ability to clamp his jaw shut from that angle. She could feel the man straining in his delirium, and when she looked down at him she saw his eyes searching hers in confusion and misery. Florabel started to whimper.

"Mama he's a-cryin'. Look!" she pointed as tears leaked out of his eyes and trickled into his hair. Emma and Jeb tilted his head back a little further. "You's a-hurtin' him, Mama! Please stop!" the child began to cry in empathy.

"Florabel, hush! We's gonna help him. This medicine is powerful strong, and it's gonna make him feel a whole lot better in just a few moments, so just you wait and see, and don't fuss at us."

"Why is you holdin' him down like that?" she demanded.

"He ain't gonna like the taste of the Laudanum, and since he's out'a his head and not knowing what's happening, he's gonna try and spit it right back out. Ain't his fault, it's just his body's way of trying to rid itself of it, but he needs it whether he likes it or no. So we need to clamp his mouth shut until he swallers. I need to be able to clean his wound, but I cain't when he's hurtin' as bad as he is." She nodded at Jeb who was holding the bottle and spoon. "Now Jeb, just a little more'n half a spoonful." The old man poured the brown liquid into the spoon, recapped the bottle and set it on the nightstand where it wouldn't get knocked over. Emma was holding the man's face and stroking it, hushing him and giving Jeb the go-ahead with her eyes.

"Here goes nothin'," Jeb said as he wedged the spoon into the man's mouth and tipped the liquid in. Both adults immediately clamped his jaw shut and held him tight. The man kicked out and bucked against them. His neck tendons strained until they were taut, pluckable ropes. His face flushed beet-red and he screamed through his forcibly clenched teeth.

"Swaller, honey." The woman rocked him and held her free hand against his temple, drawing circles with the soft pad of her thumb, there. When she was sure he'd swallowed, she reached out toward her daughter. "Hand me the glass of water, Florabel," she said. The child tottered up and handed her mother the glass, never taking her eyes off the man. The young girl was practically in tears. She'd never seen anyone in so much pain before. Not even her papa had been that bad off. Emma tipped the glass of water to the man's lips and poured in some of the liquid to help get the taste of the Laudanum out of his mouth. The grownups sat there for several minutes, holding him and talking quietly as the medicine started to work. Minutes passed and the young man's body began to relax, his muscles stopped twitching and pulling against his captors in thoughtless attempts to escape their grip. His errant eyes slowly ceased their rapid wanderings, and what little thought had been behind the roving, mostly pain-stricken panic, slowly melted into a serene, dream-like sedation. His throat hitched and he swallowed convulsively, breathing out a shuddering sigh. Two final tears were wrung from his eyes as the lids finally closed fully. Emma lightly brushed them away and continued to softly stroke his brow and offer wordless, hushed whispers of comfort. After about ten minutes, Emma and Jeb nodded to each other and quietly resituated him, laying him back down on the bed and covering him up.

"Well that was an experience I ain't never gonna forget," Jeb whispered shakily. "That boy was plumb off his nut with pain. I ever git that bad off, Em, I want you to go to the bunkhouse and fetch my gun from my drawer and you just up and shoot me."

"Jeb, you stop that nonsense. Ain't no one shootin' nobody. He'll be more comfortable now," she said situating herself so that she could clean his shoulder.

"Is the medicine workin', Mama?" Florabel came up and leaned on the edge of the bed.

"It is. He's gonna be resting for several hours. You can keep him cool for now, but from here on in if'n he starts movin' or moanin', you need to stop until one of us is here and says you can keep going. He's strong and he don't know what he's doin'. He could hurt someone that he'd be sorry about hurtin' if he knew what he done. So don't you keep touchin' him if he so much as twitches," she warned her daughter. "You hear me? Don't forget."

"OK, Mama. I won't forget," she promised.

**O**

_February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Don't you fret, now, darlin', it should come back to you. Your name is Sam Ulrich. You work for OSHA and got hurt on a job site you were inspecting. You've been here with us at the clinic for a couple of days. Do you remember anything at all?" Abby finished taking his blood pressure and patted his arm.

"I…I'm not sure," Sam hesitated.

"Well, it'll come back to you. I'll leave you with your aunt and uncle. I'm sure they'll spark your memories." She smiled and left the threesome alone.

Sam's eyes landed on the expectant couple. Before Abby had entered, they'd been grilling him. They seemed like nice people and he really did want to please them, but he was drawing a blank. "Brother?" he returned to the conversation that had been interrupted by Abby's arrival. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, hoping that would spark a light in the darkness. "I—I don't remember," he said a little defeated.

"His name is Dean. Don't you remember now?" the bearded guy said.

"Sorry," Sam said. "I'm still having trouble with your names, let alone some other guy's." He felt a lot of pressure coming from these two. But, hell, he was still working on remembering the names of small little things like _cup, baseball hat, jacket, pencil_. That was task enough with the items right in front of him. He couldn't even begin to picture a brother that apparently wasn't around. The whole thing was making him dizzy. That, and his ribs felt like they were on fire. He winced and put a protective hand over his side.

The man and woman shared a frustrated glance at each other. "All right, son. I'm Bobby and this here is Ellen. You 'n me, we go way back. I've known you since you were young enough to still be droppin' deuces in your drawers."

"And you are my aunt and uncle, you said?" Sam asked. Bobby pulled off his cap, scratched his hair, tugged the cap back on and heaved a sigh.

"Technically speaking," he said lowering his voice. "No. But you trust us just as much as family. You're a hunter, son. That ring any bells?"

"You can't just blurt that out, Bobby." Ellen tried to shush him. "He's going to think we're crazy."

"Dunno what else to do, Ellen. Doc says we have to talk to him about his life, and this is his life. I'd like to be gentler, but we need him to remember." Bobby looked at Sam and sat on the edge of his bed.

"You're a hunter, Sam. You and your brother were hunting a vengeful spirit and something happened. Do you remember anything? You're a hunter," he repeated. "That has to mean something, Sam. Try and remember."

Sam looked at Bobby. Actually, it did mean something; although, he wasn't completely able to process the imagery suddenly assaulting him. The darkness crumbled as rapid-fire flashes of what he presumed were memories flitted through his inner viewer. A quick toss of a lighter into an open grave, a line of salt across a doorway, a man with yellow eyes torturing a younger man as he begged for his life, the same young man smashing a mirror, and on and on the images flashed one overlapping the other. The deluge took his breath away. He didn't know how much time had passed, but Bobby and Ellen were in the midst of hovering and talking excitedly when he came back to the present.

"Sam honey, you with us?" Ellen asked, brushing her smooth, maternal hand over his brown hair.

Bobby was lightly patting his arm. "Take it slow and easy, boy. Big breaths. C'mon, now," he urged. "In and out."

Sam worked to get his breathing under control before the pain in his ribs pulled him under. His brow pleated with pain. It felt as though he was being tossed and juggled between the varying images. "I saw some things," he said, confused. "But," he searched for a vocabulary that was still elusive. "But they're just pictures. I don't own them. How do I describe it?" he grappled. "I see it. I don't remember it," he said rubbing his temples from the strain.

"What did you remember or see?" Bobby asked.

"Just a bunch of flashes. I was with a guy. We were lighting a grave on fire. I saw a yellow-eyed man hurting him," he sighed. "I could see everything as though I had been a part of it, but I don't remember it happening. I don't know who those people are."

"It's OK, Sam. It'll come back soon. That other guy, did he have light colored hair? Good looking sonofabitch?" he prompted.

Sam shrugged and nodded. "I guess," he said.

"That's your brother, Sam. That's Dean. C'mon. Try and remember him."

Sam sat for a moment while Ellen quietly soothed him. Finally he sighed and felt a twinge of pain. "I don't…I can't remember," he said miserably. "But I know that something odd must have happened. I feel like I _should_ remember. It's like everything is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't…" He closed his eyes in deep concentration. "Ugh, I can't grasp it. I reach for it but there's this darkness between me and the memory."

"You'll get there, Sam. Just hang in there," Ellen said.

Bobby gave Ellen an agonized side-glance. He felt that every moment that Sam could not remember put Dean in even greater danger. The idea of Sam not remembering until it was too late was unthinkable. For one thing, Bobby knew that Sam would eventually remember, and when he did he would never forgive himself if anything happened to Dean, so Sam was just as much at risk, here. "Look, Sam. I think the way to help you remember is to get back on the case, take a look at the construction site where you two were attacked. Maybe getting back on the hunt will be enough to jar loose the stubborn pieces. I know your ribs are gonna be sore, but you think you'd be ready to get out of here later today or tomorrow?" he asked. Memories intact or not, Bobby was heartened to see that Sam was definitely still _Sam_.

"I'm ready to leave now. I just need to get dressed," he said. "I need to know what the hell is going on, Bobby. I may not remember my brother, but I won't leave him out there alone."

Bobby and Ellen exchanged glances and smiled. "That's the Winchester spirit," Ellen said.

"Winchester?" Sam rolled the word around in his mouth and looked up with a perplexed expression.

"Never mind, y'damn fool," Bobby said. "It'll come back soon enough. Let's just get you out of here."

"So I guess this means I don't really work for OSHA?" Sam asked as he gripped his ribs and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

**O**

_February 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel lay at the foot of the bed, resting her eyes for one sleepy moment. It was a little after midnight now, and the young girl was mulling over everything that had happened the last few days, trying desperately to make sense of it all. She remembered last year, just before the black blizzard, when her papa had roused her from sleep because he'd heard that Mrs. Haffner's cereus plant was fixing to bloom that night. With a quiet, naughty giggle Papa had put a conspiratorial finger to his lips and they'd stolen away, leaving Mama sleeping with little Henry. Her papa had swung her up on his mighty shoulders, and together they'd walked under a million stars to the Haffner's farm. It was almost two in the morning when they'd arrived, just in time to witness the plant that folks called _The Queen of the Night_ unfold and bloom in the dark, defying the dust and wind that had beaten it until its little head had been lying half buried. But on that parched night in early July the bulb had fought the dust and unfolded despite everything. The plate-sized flower didn't know about the drought. It had never seen the withering sun and never would. The delicate, spiny petals reached toward the stars, and Florabel was sure that before the night was over they would surely touch them. Her papa had told her what a fine thing it was to know that even in the darkest of nights, amidst such hard doubt, that something so beautiful could stir and flourish. That night spent with the cereus flower was the last quiet moment that she ever got to share with her papa, just the two of them, before the storm came and turned day into the darkest night ever. Her thoughts floated on. She remembered how her mama often used to say that it was always darkest just before the dawn. The little girl knew that her mama meant that sometimes things got really, _really_ bad before they got better. They may not have had much experience with the 'dawn' part of that adage, but both of them surely knew what the 'really bad' part was like.

Take Mr. Hetfield, for instance, she thought to herself. Yesterday she'd been so hopeful when he started moving and calling out. She'd thought that it meant that he was on the mend, but he'd gotten steadily worse since then. When he wasn't asleep from the Laudanum, he'd been thrashing about in pain and fear. He'd looked so hurt and confused, Florabel had thought he resembled a poor, scared animal, and that made her feel so grievous and sad. She wanted to help him, but she didn't know what to do. Neither her mama nor Old Jeb knew anymore than she did, so they just kept giving him half a teaspoon of Laudanum every six hours or so to take the pain away and let him sleep. He wasn't even able to drink water from a glass anymore, so her mama just squeezed a wet cloth over his mouth and gave him something to drink that way. All three of them had taken turns running a cold cloth over him, but his fever raged on. There had been another hopeful moment earlier that day, too, when her mama had cleaned the wound. She'd noted that the poultice had turned gray and was beginning to speckle with dark blue-green spots. Truth to tell, looking at it made Florabel's stomach flip worse than looking at the wound itself did, but her mama assured her that the spots meant that the poultice was starting to work. Unfortunately, poor Mr. Hetfield wasn't getting better at all.

In fact, with things as bad off as they were, her mama, Old Jeb and even Slaid were all in the room tonight, because they were thinking that the man might be going to Jesus soon. All day long Mr. Hetfield's breathing had gotten faster and faster, and ever since the sun had gone down, his moans and thrashes from his fever-dreams had gotten weaker and more pitiful. Old Jeb said that the poor boy just didn't have the strength to fret much anymore. She'd overheard the old man say that he reckoned the Mr. Hetfield would be with the saints before the sun came up. The child couldn't bear the thought of it and had started crying before a strong word from her mama had forced her to mind that he wasn't family and to stop fussing over it. She did her very best to be brave, but it just didn't seem fair. God had sent Mr. Hetfield to her, and now he was just gonna snatch him back before she could even find out what it all meant. Maybe he'd be like the cereus plant that bloomed when there was no cause or reason to believe that it ever would. Maybe. Florabel stuck her knuckles in her sleepy eyes and gave them a good twist. She didn't expect that things could get much worse than they were now, so she was truly hoping that the dawn wasn't far off. She was just about to put her hands together and pray to Jesus to please let him live, when the bed started to shake and thump against the wall, suddenly. Florabel's eyes snapped open and she bolted upright, staring wide-eyed. Everyone else jumped, too.

"Lord above, he's pitchin' a fit!" Jeb yelled out, leaping from the chair he'd been drowsing in. He tried to hold the sick man down, but he was flailing hard against the older man.

"Florabel, run and fetch the wooden spoon!" Emma called as she joined Jeb in trying to contain the man's seizure. The child stood rooted in place, part in horror—part in fascination as Mr. Hetfield's muscles stretched tighter than she thought possible. His arms and legs looked like they fairly had minds of their own as they thrashed about while his eyes rolled deep in his head. "Florabel…NOW!" Emma shouted, finally uprooting her daughter and sending her into motion. Florabel grabbed the spoon, and peeling her way back from the kitchen she handed it to her mother. Her mama placed the handle between the man's teeth until the fit finally passed.

"Is he dyin' Mama?" she whimpered. Emma didn't answer. The woman just looked at Jeb like she was about to cry herself. Old Jeb looked real sad and sorrowful at Mr. Hetfield.

"I think he's fixin' to pass, Em," he said mournfully.

"Mama! Is he dyin'?" Florabel shouted, on the verge of hysteria. Emma just looked at Jeb and shook her head helplessly. "Mama?" Florabel choked.

Emma's face hardened and she turned to her daughter. "Florabel, you git on out of here, now. You go on and sleep in your own bed tonight." The woman led the little girl out of the room and shut the door despite the child's loud pleas and protests.

Jeb stood by the bed. "You done everything you could, Em. It just don't look like he's gonna spring back." Emma continued to study the man, either trying to figure out some other way to help him or some way to ease his passing. Jeb wasn't sure which.

Slaid moved in to take a close look at the man and let out a small snort. "He'll be dead by morning," he affirmed. "Bah," he said with a little shrug. He noticed the man's silver ring and started pulling it off.

"Slaid, you leave that be. What in hell's gotten into you?" Jeb asked.

"Devil fighter won't need it where he's going. Better with us than in the ground with him," he shrugged.

"Ain't nobody touchin' nothin'. If this poor wretch gits his amazin' grace tonight, then that thing ain't goin' to the likes 'a you. You ain't even been around in days nor pitched in to keep this boy breathin'. If he passes it'll go to Em who ain't slept in days trying to save him. You damn fool." Jeb pushed him toward the door. "You git on now. Go on to the bunkhouse. We'll take care of this boy. But if'n we need your help diggin' a grave tomorrow, you best do it without any lip."

"Ya, big, circus-man sized hole. Big grave," he hooted.

"Slaid, just shut your pie-hole an' go," Jeb nodded him off.

As soon as she heard his hand on the door-knob, Florabel dashed around the corner from where she'd been lurking by the door and crouched down in the shadows. She saw Slaid come out and she prayed that he wouldn't see her. Once she heard the screen door slam in the night, she released a puffed breath of relief and crept back to the sick-room door. Sitting down and hugging her knees tightly to her chest, she listened to the adults talk.

"Don't pay him no heed, Emma," Jeb said. The older man bent down and put his hand on the sick man's head. He softly ran his wrinkled fingers through the younger man's hair and watched helplessly as the dying man fought for each erratic, shallow breath. Jeb sighed. His voice was quiet and sad. "Why don't we give this poor boy a few spoonfuls of Laudanum all at once and just let him go to God peaceful-like? He ain't gonna last much longer'n a pint of whiskey in a five-handed poker game as it is. We'd be doin' him a mercy, Em. Look at him. He's sufferin' somethin' terrible." He could hear a seething intake of breath, and the young woman gave him an inflamed glance. She didn't answer him; she just started to strip the covers entirely off the man, leaving him lying there in nothing but his under-shorts. A tremor ran through him in response to the cold and he let out a washboard, rumbling groan. She went to the wardrobe and rooted around in it, looking for something. Jeb wasn't sure what. "Emma, come on, girl. You's exhausted and you done your share. Now let this poor boy go. Even if he was to live, he won't have no sense left, more'n likely. The fits and fever has surely balled up his head beyond repair."

She pulled back from the wardrobe holding two large fans. "Hush an' help me, old man," she said without warmth. "I ain't a-gonna poison him just so's we can git a good night's rest. Shame on you, Jeb," she said handing him a fan. "Let's git him wet from head to toe and we'll fan him until his fever breaks or we do. I ain't a-gonna give up."

"Em, what's got you girl? You fussed at Florabel—gave her a right talkin' to because she was gittin' too attached. But you's doin' the same thing. You don't even know this boy, Emma."

Emma threw a rag into the bucket and pulled it out laden and dripping with water. She let the water slosh over the man's arms, chest and legs. So much water sluiced out that it pooled on his belly and trickled down his sides, wetting the bed beneath him. She gave no heed to the mattress. She lifted his legs and cooled the undersides of his thighs and wrung out the rag out a couple of times over his shorts, thoroughly saturating the material. She immodestly placed sopping cloths in those private creases where his inner thighs met his groin. Jeb watched her wet the boy's hair down and wrap a cold cloth around the back of his neck. The whole time her lips were set, thin and tight with defiance and determination. She only paused when the man's throat hitched involuntarily and he wheezed out a quick, spiked wail. Each time his insensible protests became too loud or too rapid, she'd stop and murmur gently in his ear, whispering wordless encouragement. Despite the man's weakened state, he seemed to calm a little when she whispered soothingly to him. Once he was completely soaked, Emma stood back and started to fan him. She looked daggers at Jeb until he joined in, too.

Finally, Emma spoke. "It ain't him," she said as she waved the fan back and forth. The man below her gasped and writhed as waves of shivers wracked his body. "God help me, I'll be sorry if he passes. I will. But it ain't him I'm worried about. With everything this past year we been put through. Jeb, I cain't…" She batted a tear away as it escaped her eye, a poignant betrayal of her cool, stolid expression. "I cain't bear to watch my little girl lose one more thing that's important to her. How will I ever convince her that the world is a good place to be if'n all she knows is this? Dust and death and then more dust on top of it." She fanned the man faster and faster. "I don't want Florabel to know only the bad parts of life. If'n he dies, how can my baby daughter ever understand that sometimes people do git better? That God and Jesus is merciful and just? That sometimes you win an' things turn out right? My daughter needs to win, just this once. I ain't doin' it for him. I'm doin' it for my child. _I'm doin' it for me_. I cain't take a world so gray and dead, Jeb. I cain't. When I breathe, all I taste is dust, and I feel like I'm chokin' on it. So you keep fannin' old man, and don't you stop until his fever is broke—one way or the other," she said emphatically.

Florabel sat outside the door. She could feel her warm tears drip off her chin and onto her knees as she hugged them close. Just before sleep pulled her under, she heard Jeb talking low and soft.

"All right, Em. I ain't goin' nowheres. You's a terrible determined woman," he said, but there was admiration in his voice rather than judgment.

The last thing Florabel heard was her mother speaking in that tone of voice that always made you do what you were told. "C'mon, let's git to it," she said. "We got work to do."

**O**

_February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Doc Haffner agreed tentatively. "I s'pose he'll be all right to get on out of here." He turned to Sam. "Just so long as you keep them ribs bound up tight for a couple weeks at least."

The young man nodded. "I will. So, I'm good to go, then?"

Doc looked at him, peering into his eyes. "How's the memory? Things comin' back all right?"

"Not a hundred percent, yet," Sam admitted truthfully. "But it's coming back. My aunt and uncle are helping me."

"I reckon it doesn't much matter whether you're in the clinic or not. In fact, as I recall Jesse Gibson remembered everything the day he got released and saw his home and little girl. The rest of him is healing just fine, now. The boy'll be ready to defend his title this summer."

"Title?" Bobby asked.

"Why, he's Boise City's _Post Hole Diggin' Champion_ three years runnin' now," he said proudly. "He's the record holder." He cleared his throat as he watched three perplexed hunters sit there, quietly blinking like a parliament of owls. "Well, that's a big deal around these parts, anyway." He pulled himself up with dignity. "Point is, gettin' this boy into his familiar surroundings should help to get the memories flowin' better. Leastwise that's what we've found with the others."

Bobby and Ellen gave each other a wincing glance. They were both wondering if there would be anything strong enough in the boy's peripatetic existence to open the floodgates. "We'll work it out one way or the other, Doc," Bobby assured.

Doc bobbed his head and began to retreat. "I'm sure you will. Remember, everyone has come around eventually within a few weeks. If he don't bounce back, you just bring him back on in and we'll see if we can't get him referred to a specialist. But like I said, we ain't found any sound medical explanation for it, so just keep talkin' to him. Aside from Matt's crazy notions of ghosts, I'm thinking it's all just stress. Get rest and things will eventually come back, I'm betting. I'll let you folks get ready. Abby will get started on your release forms, here, in a bit and she'll bring them on in for you folks."

The Doc left the three hunters to start getting Sam ready. The boy slowly rose from where he'd been sitting on the side of the bed.

"You need a hand there, honey?" Ellen asked.

"No, I got it, I think," Sam said with a wince and a smile. He gingerly held his ribs and looked about for clothes to put on. Ellen went over to the closet and pulled out the plastic bag with his personal items in it and handed it to him. "Where exactly do I live?" he ventured to ask as he looked at the bag.

"Uh, strictly speaking, son, you don't have no permanent home," Bobby said. "The closest thing you and Dean got is my house. Y'spent enough time eatin' me out of house and home through the years," he said with a fond smile. "But I hope it don't take us dragging you up there to pry your sticky parts loose. We still need to find Dean, first. Trust me, it ain't right that he's not here. Something's happened. He never would leave you alone if he was in any condition to be by your side."

Ellen nodded. "Wasn't more'n two weeks ago that he went near crazy when he couldn't find you. He called me frantic with worry. Something's definitely wrong if he ain't here."

Their words suddenly sparked a rapid flash of images that literally threw the young hunter off balance. Both Bobby and Ellen lunged for him to keep him from falling over as he staggered to remain upright. They half walked him, half dragged him back to the bed and sat him down.

"Breathe, kid," Bobby said, anchoring him with his hands on his shoulders. Ellen rubbed his back maternally and ran her hand lightly through his hair.

"You with us, Sam?" she asked quietly as the boy sucked in air.

The boy rubbed his temples with shaky fingers. "I saw something. Images. I don't remember it happening, but I think they're memories."

"What did you see?" Bobby asked.

"Me and some guy in an old house. He was bleeding, gripping his shoulder. He…" Sam stuttered. "He…punched me," he said.

"That sounds like Dean," Bobby smirked. "He liked to have clocked you one good after we got Meg out of you." Sam looked at him confused. "Don't worry about that," Bobby said waving him off. "Not important right now. What else did you see?"

"Me and Dean," he said trying the name on for size. "We were in a building. I was trying to hold on to him. There was so much wind. So much wind," he said with his eyes closed, translating what he had seen in his head to the other two hunters. "It was hitting us from all sides." He rubbed his head in concentration. "That's…that's all," he sighed in frustration.

"All right, Sam." Ellen patted him. "No need to force an aneurism. It'll come. You're already remembering a lot in a short time. That's much better 'n we hoped."

"It's so close," he gritted out. "I can feel that it's right there. I just can't grab hold of it through that dark _thing_. This is so frustrating."

"Let's just get you dressed. We'll get a room and let you get some rest and then we'll start fresh," Bobby said. "Ellen, why don't you leave gimpy with me here for a few and I'll make sure he don't put his drawers on backwards or catawampus."

"Yeah. Sure," Ellen said. She picked up the bag of clothes where Sam had dropped it and tossed it to Bobby. He caught the bag upside down and right as he grabbed hold, a small leather strap fell out onto the bed. Sam casually picked it up.

The moment his eyes focused on the small horned amulet, Sam felt a nauseous, heaving gravitational pull, as though he had slipped right over the highest peak of a rollercoaster. The world tilted as he was assaulted by an avalanche of images. A small boy opening a newspaper package on Christmas. A young man with a lopsided grin bent over a pool table. The same man, pulling him from a fire where someone…his girlfriend…_his girlfriend Jess_…was burning on the ceiling. Another twist in the track and he was catapulted in another direction. More images: the same man…Dean…_His brother, Dean_…shooting the Shtriga as it tried to feed on him. Dean singing loudly in the car. In the Impala. _Dean's Impala_. Dean cleaning his weapons. Dean standing broken and blank with unimaginable grief as their father's corpse burned. The track fell away and he was free-falling now. The images were no longer impersonal playbacks. They were memories, deliberate, sharp, and overwhelming. He felt bloated and pregnant with them, like he was being pulled and distorted in a funhouse mirror. Dean punching him when he'd tried to warn him about Gordon. Dean weeping on the side of the road somewhere in the mountains, riddled with guilt for merely being alive. _Dean._

Sam had no tactile sense of Bobby and Ellen laying him back down on the bed…_Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle…Jesus!_ It took several moments before he could hear anything outside the buzzing in his head as the memories crashed into him one after another.

"In and out Sam. In and out," were the first outside words that penetrated. He did his best to comply, but he was disoriented and nauseous. He felt Bobby's hand grip his and squeeze. "Come on Sam. Open up," he said.

Sam snatched a lungful of air and steadied himself. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was lying in a pool of sunlight. Bobby and Ellen were standing over him with cautious expectation. "Jesus," Sam heaved out a breathless grunt. "Jesus, Bobby."

"You remember, don't you, boy?" Bobby said giving his shoulder a firm grip. Sam looked at the amulet dangling in his fingers, shut his eyes and took another greedy breath. He swallowed and nodded.

"Dean…" he gasped out and his eyes flew open.

"What, Son? Do you remember what happened to Dean?" Bobby asked.

"I couldn't hold on, Bobby. I tried. But we fell and…" he closed his eyes to the painful memory that had just slammed into him.

"And what, sweetie?" Ellen asked, bending close.

He clutched the amulet to his heart. "That thing. It knew him," he hissed out in stunned horror. "And it took him."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	5. Howjadoo

_**A/N: A big round of applause goes to Beckydaspatz, Numpty, and NongPradu for their beta guidance. Please celebrate the incredible work of these amazing authors by reading and reviewing their stories! **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes and children in peril. See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers.**_

_**A/N: This chapter has been edited to stay within the "T" rating. The unedited version can be read on LiveJournal (address is in my profile).**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 5: Howjadoo**

**O**

_February 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel hugged herself tighter as she slowly surfaced from her unsettled sleep. Sitting up coltishly, she wobbled and burbled as she reoriented herself. She'd been lying on the cold, hard floor just outside the bedroom door where Mr. Hetfield had been dying last night. She wiped the dusty sludge from the corners of her mouth and coughed up some sooty grit. Blinking the dusty crust away, she slowly focused on the closed door before her.

She listened for movement or any sign of activity coming from the room, but there was only sad silence. Florabel's shoulders bowed with the weight of her own dread as she stood and opened the door. Shivering in the doorway with her bare legs knocking together from cold and nerves, she peered in.

Her mama was sitting in the old rocker that had been pushed near the bed. She had her shawl draped loosely around her, and her head was resting against her shoulder in sleep. Old Jeb was slumped in a chair at the corner of the room, legs outstretched and crossed, one over the other. His arthritic, knobby hands were folded together over his chest, and he was snoring lightly into them. Florabel swallowed as she padded quietly to the foot of the bed and forced herself to look. Mr. Hetfield was lying completely straight and still. A blanket was draped on him up to his chest, just like her papa had been. She remembered her mama walking her into the room right after he had gone to Jesus so that she could kiss his cold forehead and say goodbye.

The child's chest suddenly constricted with sorrow. Her breathing started to catch and rumble as she looked at the man, and she felt a tear drip down her cheek. When she wiped at it, her fingers came away brown from all the dust on her face. Just as she felt the pressure in her chest expand with a sob of grief that she wasn't even supposed to feel because he wasn't family, her eye perceived a small movement. She caught the sob just before it became airborne and swallowed it back down while she took a better look. There it was again. The blanket moved softly with Mr. Hetfield's breath.

Mr. Hetfield was breathing.

She looked at the other two sleeping adults and tiptoed around to the other side of the bed and leaned in close, her innocent hopes rising like sap in a spring thaw. She cautiously put her little hand to Mr. Hetfield's brow. It wasn't hot with fever. It wasn't cold with death. It was warm with sleep. It was warm with life.

"Florabel." She heard her mama whisper to her. Looking up, she saw Emma silently shake her head no, telling her to leave the sleeping man alone. She pressed her finger to her lips, but then she smiled tiredly and opened her shawl, inviting her daughter to join her. The child scampered into her mother's arms and received a crushing hug that felt more refreshing than rain. She puddled in her mother's embrace and together the two women rocked and watched the man sleep.

"He looks peaceful and quiet," the little girl observed with a small whisper.

She felt her mother's lips move as they rested against the top of her head. "His fever broke about two hours ago," she whispered back. "Your poultice is savin' his life, baby girl." Florabel felt a warm breath and a kiss graze her ear. She turned and buried her face into the soft, welcoming flesh of her mother's neck. She'd never known such happiness before.

"You saved him, too, Mama," she said, looking up into her mother's serene face. "I heard you, Mama. I heard what you said to Old Jeb." She allowed herself to be rocked quietly for a moment. Finally, she stirred. "The world is a good place to be, Mama," she assured the woman. "Mr. Hetfield decided not to go to Heaven, even with all them diamonds and gold on the gates. He decided to stay put where he was, so I reckon it's got to be purty good here, too."

"I reckon you's right," Emma said with a smile.

The two women rocked together until their eyes started to close. Florabel snuggled deeper into her mother's arms and let sleep roll over her. Mr. Hetfield was alive. Everything was going to be fine, now.

She'd never felt more contented and safe.

**O**

The jackrabbit continued to twitch in his skeletal fingers. He squeezed harder. The house was still asleep as he crossed the dusty yard, and he wondered when they were going to order him to dig that big grave. He needed to hurry before they looked for him. He slipped into the barn with his tithe.

Slaid lifted the trap door and descended into the noisome root cellar. He lit the lamp and, laying his fresh offering on the grizzly altar, he removed his clothing. The lamplight did nothing to revitalize the pallor of his skin as he stood naked and shivering in the musty, fetid air. Taking a jagged knife out, he slit the rabbit from stem to stern and greedily watched the blood pool on the slab of wood. He put his fingers in the blood and swirled them around, lifting them to his mouth and delicately savoring each drip onto his tongue. The blood was still warm. Still fresh. He'd found the rabbit in the trap and had wrung it slowly, each bleat and scream of its death throes caused pulses of pleasure to shoot up his spine and into his groin. Watching the spark douse in its eyes had both purified and aroused him. It had cleansed him. He was sure of it. He'd be worthy to receive the Hala's blessings soon.

Initially summoning the wind-demon had been the easy part. He still couldn't control it—couldn't harness its power and energy. Not yet. It would take more than a jackrabbit to make him worthy, but he had to start somewhere. Once he had the power and energy, then everyone in that house would bend their knee to him. Do for him. Live for him. Die for him if he asked. The women in the sleeping house had never taken much note of him, no matter how hard he had tried to show them how much he wanted them, how much he loved them. They barely looked at him at all, and the little one, she was frightened of him, now, ever since she'd seen him change. But one day soon, once he'd taken the Hala's stormy spirit as his own, she would no longer run. They would love him back. They wouldn't dare _not_ love him.

**O**

_February 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

He awoke to someone whispering. He'd learned enough to know what that was. He'd spent a couple of somethings…_days_…listening and learning, or relearning maybe. He wasn't sure which it was yet. After some odd flashes, he was beginning to think it was the latter.

At first there had been nothing but whispered commands and a black, vicious wind that was trying to rip him to pieces. Then there'd been only pain. Absolute agony. After that there'd been a complete blank, the absence of anything he'd experienced—wind, whispers, pain—all of it gone. He'd been fine with that, to be honest. Finally, absence gave way to something, or, well, someone. There'd been people, mostly a small person…_a little girl_…and a pretty woman. They were giving him something…_water_…and it was the best thing he'd ever known. He could not get enough of it. The woman always pulled the thing…the _glass_…away before he was even near done. It had been so disappointing that he'd actually whimpered. The woman wouldn't give him more water, though. Instead she would just stroke his head, which felt incredibly amazing, but it wasn't water, so he'd whimpered some more. She whispered things to him, but he hadn't learned what words were yet, so he'd just listened until things got dark and everything was absent again.

He learned the meaning of words from the little girl who was almost always sitting next to him. She talked a lot. Like, _a lot_. So when things started connecting or _reconnecting_, maybe, he heard all about Molly and Penny and how it wasn't very fair that Lizzy Crawford had been born with beautiful raven curls and this little girl had been cursed with straight gold. But since she was supposed to be grateful that Jesus made her that way, she apparently wasn't allowed to fuss about it. He thought that might actually qualify as fussing, but since he knew almost nothing, he just laid there and let her talk. It wasn't like he could talk back, anyway. When she wasn't sitting in the…_rocking chair_…next to him, she would clamber right up onto the bed with him and nestle into the crook of his unhurt arm. She'd do that when she was holding a…_book_…upright for them to read together. He couldn't read, so she told him all about Mrs. Wiggs, the cabbage patch she lived in, and her dutiful son, Jim. The little girl read on like that for a long time until his eyes closed no matter how hard he tried to keep them open.

He'd definitely learned a whole lot in the short time he'd been laying there, and most of the words that were spoken to him meant something, now. Yet, whenever he tried to reach further back in time, beyond the bed—beyond Mrs. Wiggs and the little girl, there was just that black, coiled wind and the frightening whispers. So when he woke up to whispering now, he'd been alarmed at first. The more he listened, though, the more he realized that it was just the little girl, and her whispers were not nearly as terrifying as those carried by the black wind. Besides, she'd been one of the people giving him water, so he liked her on that count alone. Maybe if he opened his eyes she'd give him more. _That would be so fucking awesome!_ Wow, a new word that he didn't even remember learning. Progress! He strove to open his eyelids, but they were so heavy and comfortable where they were that he just let them be and listened to her whisper, instead.

"It ain't the Measles, Mrs. Fuller!" she said in a hoarse, crabby whisper.

"Are you sure, Doc? Ain't them the pox spots right there?" said the same voice, only a much higher, more anxious version.

"Them ain't spots! I'm a Doctor, I know these things. Git a hold of yourself, woman! Them things is just freckles," the huffy one said.

"Praise Jesus! But he ain't said a word. He ain't deaf is he? Oh, please don't say it Doc. Don't say it!" came the soft whispered cries.

"Well, let's just see, here," the raspy one said.

Suddenly there was movement and something small was unexpectedly shoved in his ear. It wiggled around and it felt…_ticklish_. His eyes got really light then, and they flipped right up in surprise.

The little girl noticed him and immediately pulled her finger out of his ear. She quickly scooted back to the chair looking rather sheepish. She sat down and began rocking innocently, swinging her legs with placid nonchalance. The man and the little girl watched each other for a moment. He could see the glass of water on the table, and he really wanted it. He looked from the water to the little girl to try and maybe get her to give him some, but she was currently consumed with looking at the ceiling and blowing air through her lips. He thought for a moment and decided to give speaking a try. If she could do it, he should be able to. He geared up and cleared his throat and blew out a breath with words in it.

"Water?" he whispered. It sounded like tires on gravel, but the word was unmistakable. The little girl's eyes lit up.

"You spoke!" she said, amazed. "Hey pal, you spoke!" She came close to his face. "Can y'say anything else, pal?"

He gulped some more air and tried again. "Can I have some water?" he ground out and then remembered another word. "Please?"

A huge smile creased her face. "You can talk! Holy mackerel!" She patted his good arm and bounced up and down in excitement. "We was so worried, you just cain't know! You nearly went to Jesus more'n once. You got shot up, bad. Who done that to you, anyway? My name's Florabel. I'm so glad you ain't deaf. You ain't is ya?" she blurted out in just a few seconds.

He was wondering if he'd said it right or not. He stared at the little girl and then made a small nudge toward the water and looked back at the little…at _Florabel_.

"Oh! Sorry, pal. Here y'go. Just a few sips, now. Mama says you'll pitch it all back out if'n you drink more." She held the glass to his lips and he drank as much as he could before she took it away. He tried to follow the glass as it was moving away from him but a jagged pain in his shoulder and arm stopped him. "Lie on back now. You'll hurt yourself." The little girl put the glass down, tucked some stray hairs behind her ear and then leaned back and patted him again. "You can have more in just a little bit. Let yer tummy sit."

"More?" he hoarsed out. "Please?"

"Not yet, pally," she said sympathetically. "Just a few minutes, an' then we'll see if you pitch it up or not."

He wasn't sure if it would ever be possible, but if there came a day when he could sit up and grab things off the table like the little girl could, the first thing he'd do is drink all the water he wanted. He couldn't do that yet, though. Just the simple move he'd made sent spikes of pain up his neck and head and then all the way down into to his fingertips. He collapsed against the pillow from the pain.

"You OK, Mr. Hetfield?" she asked. "You in pain?" She smoothed his hair. "Mama's sleepin' a spell. She been up all night with you. I think Old Jeb is catching us some more jackrabbits. I cain't give you no Laudanum. Mama said I ain't allowed, only her and Jeb is." She bit her lip, wondering if she should wake her mama up.

"It's OK," he said. As long as he didn't move, the pain in his shoulder was bearable. "Water?" he tried again.

"Land sakes, you really like water, don't ya?" She pulled the rocking chair closer and sat down. "I'll give you more in just a minute. How'd you git shot?" she asked.

He didn't know that he had been shot. But there was a sudden a flash of something behind his eyes. He saw a dock and water. Lots of it. He heard a sharp crack and then he saw himself clutch his shoulder and drop into the water. "I fell," he said.

"You didn't git that by fallin, pally. Someone shot ya," she corrected. "Who done it?"

He thought about it, but all he saw was darkness and water. "I don't know," he whispered, finally.

"Don'tcha remember?" she asked as she grabbed the water and let him drink. He drank until she took the glass away again.

He started to shake his head, but the movement stretched his shoulder. He let out a small groan before he could stop it. "I don't—I don't remember," he staggered out.

"Don't ya remember nothin'? Do you remember your name?" she asked wide eyed.

She had called him something, but he'd already forgotten the last name. Nothing sounded familiar. What was it she'd called him? "Pally?" he guessed. The girl laughed and slapped her little thigh.

"No, no, no!" she giggled. "That means 'friend'. Like a chum. A pal," she continued to yuck it up. "Your name is Mr. Hetfield. Mr. Dean Hetfield. But I'm gonna call you Pally from here on in," she decided with a squeal of laughter. "You'll be _Pally_ to me until the day I die!" she said sticking her finger up in the air to lend weight to her declaration.

Dean Hetfield. The last name meant nothing. The first name, though…that meant something. _Dean_. He felt a giddy, nauseating sensation roll through him. He could hear the name being called out in a barking scream of terror. Someone had been holding him, calling him frantically, and then he was suddenly tumbling and swirling through the dark storm. When he came back out of the cloud, Florabel was talking a mile a minute.

"If y'need to pitch up, Pal, do it here," she said holding a little bowl. "You ok, Pally?" She looked scared. She wiped away some sweat that had beaded on his lip. "Don't fret, now. It'll be all right," she spoke her mama's sayings softly to him. "There, there. Take deep breaths," she said as she rubbed his cheek.

"M'OK," he said, finally after resting a moment. The room was still spinning a little, though.

"You remember anything at all?" she asked.

He grimaced and thought a moment. "Nothing but a black wind. I saw some flashes, but I don't remember anything."

She nodded and sighed. "Your fever got too high. Mama said your brain got cooked 'cause of the fits," she looked at him with sad eyes. "You might be an idiot, too," she mourned. She gave him a sip of water, which he accepted gratefully.

"I don't remember any of that," he said.

Florabel nodded again. "You wouldn't. You was so sick, though, Pally. Fever was burnin' you up. You was hotter'n a whore house on nickel night," she said, her blue eyes cavernous. She set the glass back down. "Anyway, that's what Old Jeb said when we was wipin' you down together while Mama slept."

"Peachy," he said with sardonic embarrassment. "Good times."

She furrowed her little brows. "Wasn't good at all. It was a hard time," she corrected him. "We was all worried. But then my poultice finally started workin'," she beamed and pointed to the bandage resting on his shoulder. "An' your fever finally broke two nights ago. You been sleepin' a lot since then, but Mama has to dose you up with medicine when she tends your shoulder, 'cause you was wailin' so bad with pain. Laudanum makes a person mighty happy and sleepy."

They were quiet for a moment. There was so much he didn't know, but he didn't even know where to begin. "Where am I?" he finally ventured.

"You's in my grand-papa's old room, but he don't need it no more. He died when I was real little. I don't remember him much," the little girl said as she rocked herself.

"OK," Dean pressed. "But where's here? What is this place?"

"It's our farm, silly Pal," she said as she looked at him trying to figure out how bad of an idiot he was now. She decided to be very patient with him since he didn't know any better. "We live just north of Boise City. Why, that's just the biggest city in all of Cimarron County," she said and then laughed a little. "But then the only other town is Keyes and that's smaller 'n Boise City by far." She studied his blank expression. "In Oklahoma," she said.

"Oklahoma," he repeated. That name had some sense of familiarity to it, but he didn't remember anything about it. It was like the word 'chair', it held meaning for him but no specific flashes accompanied the word like they did for the word 'Dean'. Where he was didn't spark anything, so he tried another question. "How did I get here?"

"You got shot and came to our barn to rest a spell, I reckon. I dunno how you got shot, though, or who done it. Old Jeb was hopin' you'd be able to say, 'cause he was worried you was a bank robber or a G-man or somethin'. He's gonna be fit to be tied when he finds out you don't know," she said. "An' you broke up our barn, too. That weren't very nice, Pally. It's gonna take a lot of work to fix it back up, and Old Jeb's arthritis is purty bad."

"I'm sorry, I did what?" he asked.

"Our barn is all cut up inside, and they was even some stuff there that weren't ours, wood and big beams. We found you in the middle of the mess. Maybe it weren't you, though. Maybe it was the bad man who shot you. Don't know for sure. Maybe when you's better you can help Old Jeb fix it back up," she offered.

"Who's Old Jeb?" he asked.

The little girl grinned. "You ask a lot of questions! Folks always say I do, but I think you ask more," she giggled. She rolled her eyes as though the answer was so plain that she couldn't quite conceive of him asking. "Old Jeb. He's our farmhand. He used to live a few farms over, but then his wife died of Dust Pneumonia. After that the bank come and took his farm back. And that's an odd thing, Pally. 'Cause his house and barn—they's still right there, but everyone says that the bank took it away from him. Anyway, he cain't stay there no more, so he stays in our bunkhouse now. We used to have a dozen farmhands, but when it stopped raining and the dust come most of them farm-boys all left and went on their way. Weren't no more crops to bring in anyway, and the cattle was all starvin', so a government man came by, gave my mama a little money and shot them all. It was real sad, Pally. Some of them cows was my friends. Then the last few boys who was here finally left when President Roosevelt gave 'em all jobs with the CCC."

"The CCC?" Dean asked.

"I dunno what it is, but Mama says all them boys, Grumpy Joe, Short Bill and the others, all live somewhere in Washington State or someplace, now. They's buildin' stuff. But Old Jeb was too old for the CCC, so he had to stay put. He fixes little things that Mama needs fixin' and he's nice. He brings us all the jackrabbits we can eat. It's just Old Jeb and Slaid, now."

"Slaid?"

The little girl looked at the ground and fidgeted. "He's our other farmhand," she said blankly. "But you just stay clear of him, Pally." She pulled her knees up and hugged herself as she rocked the chair back and forth hard. Dean raised his eyebrow at her. She bent close, shooting paranoid, fearful glances around the room. "I don't think he's human. I saw him change into a monster, Pally, and it was the scariest thing ever!" she whispered.

"A monster?" As he said the word he had that nauseous, whirling feeling again. He shut his eyes to try and right himself, but a sudden burst of images spun around him as though he were a lone spindle being tethered by countless strands. He heard himself moan out once, but then he couldn't hear or see anything beyond the stuttering scenes swirling and overlapping before him: he was lying in a puddle of water as a huge growling monster approached, and he saw himself pull the trigger of a gun with a wire attached to it. Then, he was in a dark place…a cave or shaft of some sort…a starved, pallid monster ran at him and he pulled another trigger and saw the monster catch fire. Another image: he and a boy were being chased through an orchard by a scythe-handed scarecrow. He flinched as he watched the monster run its scythe through a man and walk off with him. He suddenly felt a small hand tapping his face. The little girl was there, and she was scared.

"Pally! Wake up! Wake up!" she was calling and slapping his cheek. He opened his eyes and tried to bring his right hand up to stop her tapping. He could feel his heart beating in his bad shoulder and jabs of white-hot pain were taking his breath away.

"I'm OK. Stop, please," he begged as he tried to catch his breath.

"I thought you was fittin' agin, Pally. Please be OK. I don't want you to have another fit. It scares me when you thrash about," she said, her blue irises pooling.

"I'm fine," he said, drawing a lungful of breath in. Florabel offered him water. He took a drink and then tried to lie still so that his shoulder would stop throbbing so hard. "I saw something," he said opening his eyes.

"What didja see?" she asked.

"I—I think I saw a monster, too. A few of 'em. Are there lots of monsters in the world?" he asked.

"Mmm, I don't rightly know. I think most monsters hide purty well. My friend Lizzy says they was a big one under her bed, but no one but her ever saw it. And how big can a monster be what lives under your bed? I think maybe Lizzy was mistook. But Slaid is definitely one, so don't make him mad, Pally," she said with a nod of caution.

Dean ran his hand over his face and felt the stubble on his chin. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel normal to him. Nothing was making much sense, and he was getting frustrated and tired. He groaned a little.

"Try to lie still and calm. Once Mama wakes up, she'll give you some medicine. Try and hang in there, Pally. It'll be all right," she said and softly stroked his hair. He had to admit that it felt nice. His eyes started to get heavy.

He let her soothe him a moment before opening his eyes again. "So," he asked a little confused. "Just you and your mother live here? Where's your father?" The little girl's face fell a little and her eyes kindled with grief.

"Just me and Mama now," she said sadly. "This was my mama's papa's farm. And I think it was his papa's homestead a long, long time ago. Why, my mama was born right in this very room, in this very bed," she said. "Then she and my papa got married and they worked the farm with my grandpapa. And when I was born my papa said it was one of the best days of his life, because the wheat was in the ground and I was out of Mama's tummy," she smiled at the memory of her papa tossing her up in the air and catching her. "It was a big farm, Pally—one of the biggest in all of Cimarron County, thank you very much!" she said proudly. "They was lots of people workin' here and lots and lots of wheat and barley—lots of cows, too. They was me and Mama and Papa and baby Henry. He was my little brother. He was born in 1932 when I was five, and boy did he give slobbery kisses," she laughed at the memory and even wiped her face as though she'd just been hit by one. Her small hand curled around the kiss she'd wiped off and held it to her heart.

She sobered. "But then the dust came, and last summer my papa took real sick with the Dust Pneumonia. He got caught out in a black blizzard walking back from town, and he breathed in too much dust. So then, Old Jeb and Mama lathered him up with lots of skunk oil and turpentine and tried to git him to cough up the dust, but he couldn't breathe no more. And he died, Pally," she rocked and looked at the wet sheet covering the window—one of the only weapons they had against the dust. "And we had to go to town and stand around his grave. The Preacher talked about my papa. But I could tell that he didn't really know him, 'cause he didn't talk about how his whiskers tickled when he held me tight or how he'd play the fiddle for me, even when his fingers was stiff and cracked from workin' in the dead fields. He knew how much I loved hearing him play. The preacher didn't say nothin' about that. He didn't say nothin' about how he'd put me on his shoulders and I'd be tall as a silo or how he knew right where Mama's ticklish spot was. Preacher just said what a good man of God he been, even though I heard my papa cuss enough to make baby Jesus weep with shame. He wouldn't stop even when Mama fussed at him."

"I'm sorry," Dean said lamely. He felt horrible that he had touched off her sorrow. He wished he hadn't asked, now.

"I miss his whiskers," she said. "You got some whiskers now, too," she said pointing to his chin. "Maybe mama can shave them off for you tomorrow, if'n y'want."

He felt the spiky hair growing on his face. "I'd like that," he said.

"My papa died last July, and it was the worst thing," she went on. "I didn't think I would ever see my mama so sad agin, but then baby Henry took sick with the Dust Pneumonia, too. Him and his juicy kisses. He kept a-coughin' up brown dust, but he couldn't eat nothin'. If'n he did eat, he'd just pitch it right back up. Mama never ever stopped trying to make him better. Then November 14th came along and I was sittin' on the bed watchin' Mama hold him and rock him right in this very chair. She sung real nice for him, tellin' him that God and Jesus was gonna help him git better. I was sittin' real quiet and then I saw my mama look at Henry and she just…" she stopped rocking and folded her hands in her lap. She looked at Dean for a moment before she spoke again. "She just started screamin' his name, and she held him so tight, Pally. I ain't never seen nobody hold something so tight before. She bent down, cryin' and screamin' into his little chest. I ain't never heard Mama make those kinds of sounds before nor never since. I don't think those sounds can come out of folks on just any day. I ain't never gonna forget it as long as I live. Old Jeb tried to calm her down so's he could take baby Henry from her, but she kept pullin' his little body back and she was screamin' and cryin' so fierce. She even hit Old Jeb for touchin' Henry when she was trying to hold onto him. I never seen Mama hit anyone before. It was the worst thing I ever did see. I don't never want to see my mama sad like that agin, no how."

She rocked for a quiet moment, silently studying her legs as they pumped the chair into motion. "She couldn't even go and stand by his little grave that they dug up right beside Papa's. Just me, Old Jeb and our friends went and stood there. And you know what, Pally? It snowed that day. It snowed right on his grave, and I thought how much Henry would 'a liked that. He ain't never seen snow. But they was such big flakes, and it made the dust all thick like paste, but it was purty when it was fallin' that day. People was sayin' it was a miracle and that the drought was over. But it ain't snowed or rained since that day. So I think the angels was just cryin' with my Mama and them tears just froze on the way down to Earth."

She stopped rocking. The little girl tensed up and spoke to the ground. "After that, Mama got sick and couldn't git out 'a bed for two weeks. She wasn't sick in her body, though. Old Jeb said she was sick in her heart from watchin' my brother pass. Old Jeb stayed with her that whole time." Her voice sunk to a raw whisper. "An' that's when I seen Slaid turn into that growlin' monster. It was a bad awful time, Pally. We ain't even been back to church since Henry passed away, 'cause I think Mama is mad at God, maybe. She don't think it's fair that God has my papa and Henry, both. That's why she worked so hard to keep you here. She didn't want God to take you, too. So she yelled at Jeb and tol' him to shut up about you dyin' an' made him work extra hard to git you through the night. And here you is," she said proudly.

The room became quiet. Too quiet. "Thank you for taking care of me," Dean finally said. "I'm sorry to hear about Henry," he said, knowing that saying so did nothing to help. The little girl just nodded, agreeing, no doubt, that words were pretty useless sometimes. Dean tried to relax a moment. He was still as confused as ever, though. There was no recollection of how he came to be here, what he had been doing or even who he was, but these people had surely known worse suffering than he had. Who was he to complain about not being able to remember things right off the bat? He knew that the images he'd seen were very important, but even when he tried to see more, there was nothing there beyond being broken by a black cyclone. The whispering had been so pervasive that he felt like he could still hear the strange incantation echoing in his mind. None of the whispered words were at all close to the words spoken by the little girl. He was mulling all of this over when he heard the door open.

"Mama!" the child called out excitedly. "He's awake agin. He can talk, now, too!" Florabel sailed off the chair and ran to her mother. The woman was holding a tray with bandages, hot water and a bowl of some kind. The little girl nearly tipped everything over when she threw her arms around the woman's waist.

"Careful, Florabel!" she cautioned her daughter and got a better bid on the tray before it fell. She looked at Dean. Florabel started pulling her into the room.

"See, Mama…he's awake, but he don't remember nothin' from before he woke up. I don't think the fever left him with much sense. Hurry! Come see!"

"Gracious, Florabel, mind your manners," she said with an awkward smile at Dean. She came in and set her tray down on the bedside table.

"He don't remember his own name, Mama. I had to tell him what it was," she said.

"Florabel, don't you be talkin' about him like he ain't even here," she scolded and turned to Dean. "I'm sorry. She's just excited. My name is Emma Livingston. I'm real glad you's awake. You been real sick. How do you feel now?" she asked.

Dean felt a little shy and out of place. He didn't like people looking at him or being the center of attention. "I'm fine," he said even though he winced from the pain in his shoulder as he said it.

"Mmm, I think you's fibbin' a little," she smiled. "Here, Mr. Hetfield. I brought you some broth that I want you to drink before I take a look at your shoulder. You's startin' to waste away some. You just sit back an' let me do the work." She raised a spoonful of the hot broth to his lips. It was mostly water, but it was hot and there was a hearty saltiness to it. It was pleasant enough and, more importantly, it was wet, so he accepted it without a word. "You don't remember how you got shot, Mr. Hetfield?" she asked in between spoonfuls.

"You can call me Dean," he said. "I think I like that better."

"All right, Dean," she said, her eyes a little shy in her pretty face. "You don't remember who shot you?" she asked.

Dean felt hesitant again. He didn't want to talk about himself, but she was staring at him and holding the spoon back until he answered, apparently. "I don't remember anything. I'm sorry. I saw some flashes of monsters, but that's it," he said, hoping it would be enough to get him some more broth. Florabel's eyes bugged as she stood behind her mother's shoulders and she shook her head, indicating that he shouldn't have said that.

"Monsters?" Emma asked dubiously. "Them were just fever dreams," she said.

He looked at Florabel who was nodding, telling him to just go with that. "Uh, I guess," he said. "But I—I don't remember anything else."

Emma gave him some more broth. "Your fever was high. You was convulsin'. Might'n be that things got rattled wrong. Maybe you'll remember as you heal," she said. She didn't ask him anything else while he finished his broth. When he was done, she put the bowl on the tray and grabbed the brown bottle and a spoon. "I need to clean your wound, now. I'm gonna give you some Laudanum, so's you can tolerate me touchin' it. Florabel will git you some water to drink after it. It'll make you sleepy, but I'm sure Florabel talked you near to death, anyhow. A nap'll do you good." She poured some brown liquid onto the spoon. "Open up," she said opening her own mouth in demonstration.

Dean cringed the moment the bitter liquid hit his taste buds. He was pretty sure he'd never tasted anything worse than this in his life, fever be damned. There was no way he'd have forgotten the taste of something so foul no matter how bad his memory was. It tasted like ass with a hint of cinnamon. His stomach lurched as he swallowed. "Guhhh," he moaned and shivered with disgust.

"Keep it down, Dean," Emma said and gently rubbed his good arm in empathy. When it looked like it was going to stay down, she relaxed a little and let Florabel give him a few sips of water. "It'll just take a few minutes for it to work, and then we'll git you cleaned up. Last time I looked at your shoulder it was already lookin' much better. As long as we keep it clean and the poultice moist and sproutin', you should heal all right. Ain't sure what use your arm will be when you's healed if'n more damage was done on the inside, but they ain't nothin' we can do about it. We'll just have to hope for the best. Once you've healed some, we can rub your arm and work it so that it stretches back out. For now just keep it still."

Dean couldn't even feel his left arm. The only sensations he had were ferocious pins and needles in his fingertips and a jagged jolt of pain in his elbow if he moved his shoulder or head at all. The limb certainly didn't obey any command to move. After a few minutes, though, he didn't feel too worried about it anymore. The room was aspirating the most amazing colors he'd ever seen, and he was mesmerized by the raindrops of light that were falling gently in the room. The ceiling was rippling with beautiful patterns, and the big sheet over the window was starting to billow and waft seductively—_like a fuckin' tampon commercial!_ _Fuckin' awesome, dude! Just need 'Revolution #9' playing and it'll be a fuckin' party._ Random thoughts flit through his head, the origins of which he had no clue, but it didn't much matter. He smiled at Emma. She smiled back and caressed his forehead kindly. She looked hot. _Like a smokin' Playboy-bunny—Farm-girl Edition—hot. Like, hot as fucking hell—hot. Gorgeous blue eyes with pale skin, dark blond hair falling all careless around her neck. Like, holy fuck, that bitter, brown shit is amazing!_ He could see the little girl talking away, but he couldn't make out a damn word. He loved her spunk, though. _Cute kid. I'd love to have a couple of my own one day just like her. I'll name them all 'Florabel', too, even the boys. Fuck yeah, I will. What a kick-ass name_. He turned his head back to the hot chick. She was talking to him, too. No words, just a soothing cadence that made him feel sleepy and loved. He smiled up at her and tried to tell her how truly fucking beautiful she was and how awesome he felt, but the only word he could get out of his sloppy mouth as he started to wilt with sleep was an exuberant-but-groggy, "Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude!"

_**To Be Continued…**_


	6. Pictures From Life's Other Side

_**A/N: I owe a big fat debt to Numpty, Nongpradu, and Beckydaspatz for their constant support during the writing of this story. No joke, these poor things listened to me whine and moan and groan and fumble and stew and froth and gurgle as I wrestled these words onto the page. If I recall correctly, it was this very chapter that initiated a week-long therapy session with Numpty. Thanks for that, sweets. I totally dedicate this chapter to you. :) **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes and children in peril. See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers.**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 6: Pictures From Life's Other Side**

**O**

_February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"What do you mean 'it took him'?" Bobby asked.

"It went right for him, Bobby. The only reason I got dragged in at all was because I was trying to hold him. It focused completely on him, and the spirit that was controlling that thing, that wind elemental or whatever the hell it was, seemed to recognize him. The spirit started to chant something. I couldn't tell what language he was speaking in, but I think I can remember some of the words. I've never seen anything like it before," Sam said as Ellen and Bobby helped him to sit. "We have to get back there. Let's get going."

"Well hold on just a moment," Ellen said. "We don't know what we're up against. You said yourself you didn't know what it was. There are a lot of things that it could be and we need to narrow down the list of suspects. We have to be smart about this." She looked from Sam to Bobby. "We need to get them to stop construction, too. We can't have people working there while that thing is loose."

Sam slowly rose to his feet and got his balance. Ellen kept her hand on his elbow, though, just to be sure. "I need to find, Dean," he said and then another thought struck him. "Fuck, he was hurt, Bobby. He needed medical attention even before we ever left to look at that site. I tried to get him to stay in the car, but he came in, anyway. Typical."

"Hurt?" Bobby asked.

Sam shook his head in frustration. "His shoulder," he said tapping his own shoulder in demonstration. "From where I shot him." His face was a cobbling of fury and guilt. "He was afraid to have it looked at. Didn't want to have to report it. But it had gotten infected, probably a lot worse than I even know. He wouldn't let me near it, but you know how Dean is."

"Yeah, kid, I do," Bobby sighed. "But let's get this square. You didn't shoot him. Meg did, so you need to stop with the hand-wringing over who done it."

Sam's agitation was rising. He didn't even appear to have heard Bobby. "And what if he woke up somewhere in the same condition that I was in? He'll have an infected gunshot wound with absolutely no idea who he is or what happened to him. We have to find him. Now. I can't sit around anymore."

"We're not going to just sit around. That thing you saw, I saw it, too. I've already been there and back. I heard some of the words. I've seen it, and believe me, we do not want to go in there again unless we know exactly what we're up against. There was a lot of raw energy coming from that thing. No telling what it can do besides just blowin' wind at ya." Bobby adjusted his cap and put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "First things first. We need to get a hotel room and you need to sit your ass down and tell us everything you know, everything that you and Dean did since you first got here. We can't help him if we don't know the whole story."

**O**

_February 17, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel sat lazily in the rocking chair, one leg dangling sluggishly over the arm, the other pushing up languidly against the bed, rocking the chair back and forth while she played with a couple of marbles in her hand. She rolled them around each finger and then clacked them together a few times, hoping it would rouse Pally. He'd been sleeping since forever. She sighed and clacked a little louder. Nothing. Finally she sat up and leaned against the bed, sticking her face close to his.

"Pally. Ohhhhhhh, Paaaaaaaaaally," she drawled softly. His roving eyes twitched, but he remained adrift in the dream that Florabel could see taking place beneath his lids. She spied a feather poking through his pillow, and she gently tugged it out. A mischievous grin ignited her face and she blew on the feather, making the downy strands diabolically fluffy. Brushing the feather on his chin got no response, so she tried his nose. There was definitely an eye-twitch that time. Her own eye gleamed in response and she went in a second time. That attempt even elicited a nose-scrunch. The little girl couldn't help but giggle to herself. She decided to go for broke and inserted the feather directly into his nostril, wiggling it around maniacally. Florabel had to duck as his right hand came up to bat at the offending probe.

"Quit it, Sam," he scolded drowsily. He finally cracked a goopy eye when he heard the little girl's puckish laugh.

Florabel cocked her head to the side, looking the picture of innocence. She pressed a couple of marbles into her mouth and smiled brightly through her chipmunk cheeks. "Something wake you up, there, Pally?" she asked hollowly through the marbles.

Dean gave her a groggy double-take. "Something or someone," he rasped out a feigned accusation and shut his eyes again. He blew out a sleepy puff of indignation and cuddled his blanket a little closer.

Florabel snickered and climbed up on the bed, settling herself right next to him. She poked him in the nose until he opened his eyes. "I ain't never met anyone who sleeps so much as you," she said as she impishly twirled the feather in her fingers.

"You fiend," Dean chided without any real bite as he eyed the offensive implement of torture in her fingers.

Florabel cackled and nodded in agreement at her naughtiness and played with the feather for a moment as her friend roused more fully. "Who's Sam?" she finally asked as she knocked the marbles together with her tongue.

Dean scrubbed his face with his working hand and tried to get his gritty eyes to focus as he looked at her. "Who?" he asked with a puzzled glance.

The little girl shrugged. "You said for _Sam_ to 'quit it' just now when you was still mostly asleep. Who's he?" She wanted to know.

"S—Sam?" As he stumbled over the word, the room slipped away and he fell back into the arms of a series of swirling images. He saw a young boy curled up next to him asleep. Then, he watched a dimpled teen doing calisthenics. The next image stuttered into focus; the same dark-haired boy, older now, looking tense and agitated as the two of them poured over some weaponry in a car trunk. As the boy plucked out a sharp dagger and turned to face him the vision began to disintegrate. Colors ran together and the scene melted into another, until he found himself standing in a room engulfed in flames. The same young man…_Sam_…was there, screaming and struggling wildly against him as he pulled the boy from the room. Dean's eyes flew open just as the ceiling exploded. He flinched and instinctively tried to leap up and away.

"Pally, no!" Florabel gasped, spitting the marbles out of her mouth and trying to push him back. "You'll hurt yourself. Stay still, please!" Dean's eyes ricocheted around the room wildly, inspecting the ceiling for signs of fire. When Dean began to recognize his surroundings again, he collapsed against the pillow, panting in dazed confusion. The imagery had entirely overwhelmed and upended his equilibrium. His body shook with adrenaline, and he was unable to stifle a sharp hiss of pain as hot electric pulses rippled through his shoulder and arm. He put his hand over his eyes, trying to block out the searing barbs and the sudden impulse to leap up and run. "Shhhh, Pally." The terrified child tried to ignore her own panic and soothe him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't 'a woke you up. It's OK. You's gonna to be OK," she almost whimpered as she rubbed his arm.

The images had not been memories in the strictest sense, but there had been raw emotion tied to them. They had been very real, and he got the impression that those images were a closer version of reality than he seemed to be experiencing in this farmhouse. As he tried to get his breathing under control, he looked around the room and at the little girl staunchly trying to comfort him. He couldn't help but think that where he was right now was not where he was supposed to be. He didn't quite belong. The dimpled boy—_Sam_—had evoked a piercing sense of significance. He was important. He was key. The compulsion to make contact had been so strong—to reach for him and to protect him. Dean strove to grasp him in his thoughts, but no matter what angle he approached the image from, the truth of it—the actual _memory_ of it—was just beyond his reach. His head hurt from the strain. "Dizzy," he finally wrenched out. "I just…" he tiredly scanned his alien surroundings and grappled with the frustrating images in his head. "I don't know what's happening. Everything is…all wrong," he moaned.

"It's OK, Pally. Things is gonna come back to ya. Don't fret, now," she comforted him. "Is Sam a friend of yours, maybe?"

Dean thought a moment. He felt that he should know the answer, but as with everything else he tried to pin down and hold onto, it remained just outside the margins. It was like trying to catch a piece of paper in the wind. Every time he went to grasp hold, it sailed just a little further out of reach. "I don't know who he is," he said at last, defeated and frustrated. "But he's someone important. I know that much."

"Well just don't sit up so fast. You'll pull your shoulder. I don't want you to be hurt no more," she said. "You gotta git better so's you 'n me can play marbles!" she said as she tapped the two glass beads together, trying to cheer him up. She loved doctoring, but she was ready for her patient to be able to actually play with her, now. It had been a long week. She looked at the man and patted his face. She hoped he didn't see Sam again. He didn't seem like a very good person for him to remember, especially if remembering made him as fearful and miserable as he was looking right now. He'd been through enough. Whoever Sam was, he couldn't be worth much if he made her new friend so unhappy.

**O**

_February 8, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Dude, fuckin' get off me," Dean growled and pushed Sam away with his good hand. "Personal space." He suppressed a wince of pain as he worked to get his watch off his wrist. "Sonofabitch," he muttered. "What happened to 'takes a licking and keeps on ticking'?" He shook his watch again and inspected it, but apparently the stern talking-to he'd given it had not humiliated it into working again.

"It's not a Timex, Dean," Sam said. "I don't think yours was waterproof, sorry." Sam tried to keep his tone light, but the demise of Dean's wristwatch in the frigid waters of Lake Superior was just the tip of a very large iceberg of guilt. Sam felt one hundred percent responsible for all wounds, great and small, that his brother had suffered while Meg had taken up residency in his body. No matter how adamantly Dean insisted otherwise, nothing was going to change how he felt. He'd watched Dean try to stifle a gasp of pain as he pulled the watch off his wrist. Sam sighed at another guilty reminder of Meg's reign of terror. "Your shoulder is infected, Dean. You need to have it looked at."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Sexy. I'm not an idiot, all right? And just where should we go to have my _gunshot _wound looked at, huh?" he snapped. He was tired of seeing the self reproach in Sam's face. Despite his insistence that he held Meg alone responsible, Sam just kept on fertilizing, watering, and weeding his guilt. The very last thing he wanted to do was make it worse by having the younger hunter see how inflamed the wound had become, but it was getting harder to hide it. The pain was beginning to radiate through his arm. He could feel his heartbeat from his neck all the way down to his fingertips. Worse yet, his concentration was suffering, and he thought he might be starting to run a fever as well. _Awesome._ The constant rain wasn't helping matters either. It had been going nonstop since they arrived, and everything he was wearing was chilled and damp. He tried to sell his grouchiness, though, because he knew that Sam would worry less about him if he had the strength to complain and bitch. But it was getting to the point where that was beginning to take too much effort. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to keep it up. He plastered a cocky expression on his face. "I think I'll pass on the mandatory police notification, thanks."

Sam sighed in exasperation, mostly because he knew his brother was right. "Let me take a look at it, Dean." He reached for the bandage.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean said, pulling back again. "I said I got it. Let's stop at the pharmacy on the way back and pick up more antibiotic cream. I'll take care of it. I'm not two years old, you know. I think I know how to take care of a simple flesh wound."

"Yeah, well you haven't. And don't think I can't see how much pain you're in. I'm not two years old, either, and I think I know the signs of a serious infection when I see them. We shouldn't even be here working the case. We need to stop and deal with this first."

"The bad guys never sleep, Sammy. They're fuckin' worse than the Post Office. _Neither __snow__, nor rain, nor bum shoulder, nor __gloom of night__ or however the hell the saying goes." Dean looked at his watch and he_aved out a lamentable sigh as he tossed it in the back seat. "You're so buying me a new watch after this is over," he said. "C'mon, let's go talk to this Matt guy." He reached his right hand over to unlatch the door and braced his wounded arm as he got out of the car. The world listed and pitched for a moment as he fought to hide how lightheaded he was. He fumbled with the door and shut it as casually as he could. The two of them walked up to the small house and knocked. After waiting a good twenty seconds Dean looked at Sam and raised his eyebrows. Sam shrugged and knocked again.

"Sec!" someone called. "I'm gettin' there, hang on." There was a clatter, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "Goddamn, dumb-ass crutches!" At last the door opened to reveal a scruffy man of about thirty, clumsily trying to keep his balance as he argued with his props.

"Matt Crawford?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, that's me. What's goin' on?" he asked.

"I'm Sam Ulrich, this is my partner Dean Hetfield. We're from OSHA. We'd like to talk to you about the accident at the construction site."

"Uh, yeah. Right. You can come in and talk all you want, but it wasn't no accident, though." He backed up as best he could and pivoted. After stumbling again, he gave up the idea of the crutches altogether and hopped the rest of the way to the chair. "Freakin' ass crutches. Y'gotta be a gymnast to use 'em," he bitched. He sat down and pulled the foot stool close to rest his heavily casted leg. "Say, if you guys want a beer there's some in the kitchen," he offered. "And you can grab me one, too, yeah?"

Dean raised an eyebrow and grinned. "On it."

"Mr. Crawford, we read about what you told the reporter from the paper," Sam said. "We'd like to get the story from you, if that's all right."

"It's 'Matt'," he said. "And I ain't gonna change my story. So if you want to 'tidy' up the mess and make it look all pretty in your books, that's up to you. I saw what I saw, and I ain't changin' my story."

Dean handed him a beer and offered one to Sam who shook him off. Dean set it down and tried to open the beer with his ring, but he couldn't grip the beer with his left hand for leverage. He tried to cover it by attempting to open it one-handed. Grabbing it, Sam shook his head in exasperated worry and opened it for him. Dean just shrugged and took a couple of nonchalant gulps. Sam bored holes into him but finally turned back to Matt. "We're not trying to make you change your story. We just want to get a detailed account," Sam said. "Can you tell us what you saw?"

"Well, you read the papers. A damn ghost is what I saw," he said flatly. "It was the ugliest sonofabitch I ever did see, too. I was up on the scaffold, and suddenly there it was. Damn thing smiled this wide-ass smile and started chanting something crazy."

"Could you make out what it said?" Dean asked.

"No, I couldn't make out what it said," he said snappishly. "I ain't taken a course in ghost crazy-ass talk 101, yet. It's on my bucket-list, though." Dean turned to Sam and raised a lone eyebrow. "It was gibberish," Matt went on. "But that's when the wind started."

"Wind?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, it was blowing all hell, west, and crooked. The ghost started blippin' and flickerin'. An' that's when I noticed the other one."

"_Another_ ghost?" Dean asked.

"I guess. Hell I don't really know for sure. It was all happening so fast, and I was just a little preoccupied with, you know, not dyin' at the time," he said sarcastically. "It was either two ghosts or the same ghost skippin' around or something. It'd be right next to me, then it'd show up on the other end of the scaffold. The chanting got really loud then. And the wind…? That's when the scaffolding started to snap and buckle." He took an emphatic glug from his bottle and smacked his lips. "Have you ever seen the Tasmanian Devil cartoon?"

Dean grinned with fond memories. "Hell yeah," he said. "Taz can totally kick Daffy's ass." Sam turned and cleared his throat in warning, but Dean just tossed back a saucy grin. "So you were attacked by…the Tasmanian Devil?" he asked as he turned back to Matt.

"Cute," Matt said. "No, but it looked similar. It was this rotating, dark cyclone. Then, suddenly there were fingers of electricity running through the poles of the scaffold. I knew I was in a shit storm then. I started to climb down, because I wanted to get the fuck away from that thing. Before I could get very far, a huge gust came and that was it. I didn't even remember hitting the ground. I still don't. Got most of my memories back, but I don't have that one. Don't want it to be honest."

"And you couldn't remember anything at all at first?" Sam asked.

"Not my own name. Not my wife's. Nothing. I couldn't even remember how to talk when I first come to. Finally things started coming in flashes, but it wasn't until my brother came and showed me pictures of my high school football games that I finally remembered." He took another pull on his beer. "Fellas, OSHA shouldn't be involved in this. You got things all wrong. It wasn't anything Gerry or the other contractors did. All the safety procedures were being followed. It wasn't a 'work accident'. It was a freakin' ghost, so you boys can just stick that in your OSHA pipes and smoke 'em," he said. "Sorry. But I ain't takin' it back."

"It's all right, Matt. We just wanted to find out what you had seen and heard." Sam looked at Dean who seemed to be drifting somewhat. "I think we have enough, don't you, Dean?" His brother didn't answer him and Sam finally touched his right arm. "We good here?" Dean's attention snapped back into place and he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. Setting his beer down, he wiped some sweat from his upper lip and looked at Sam. "I think we have it covered." He turned to go. "We'll let you know if we need any more information."

"Thanks for your time, Matt," Sam said and kept his hand on his brother's arm to guide him out the door.

"One thing, though," Matt called from his chair.

"What's that," Sam asked.

"I've never been more terrified in my life, you know. And it wasn't just because of seeing a 'ghost'. It meant to harm me. It whispered to me and I felt more hate and evil coming from that thing than I have anything or anyone else, ever. It ain't a joke. That thing wanted me dead. Don't go out there. You could get killed."

"We'll keep that in mind, Matt. Thanks again," Sam said before shutting the door. He took a beat before helping Dean down the steps. The rain and wind had picked up again, and the wooden stairs were snotty-slick with rot. "Give me the keys, Dean," he said curtly.

"The hell I will," Dean said. "I'm fine, dude. Take your damn hands off me. I think I can walk down four steps on my own." As if right on cue, the moment Sam removed his hand in frustration, Dean over-compensated and stumbled on the last step. Sam had to reach out and steady him.

Sam gave his brother a triumphant bitchface. "How's that working out for you?" he gloated. Inwardly, his concern was compounding with every second. His brother needed help, but Sam knew that he was hiding it, not only because that's the kind of shit Dean always pulled, but because, this time, his brother was trying to protect him from knowing the full extent of the damage he'd done—the wound _he_ was responsible for. The guilt was smothering him.

Dean waited for the agony shooting up his neck and down his arm to subside before giving him a carefree grin. "I'm like a cat, Sammy. I always land on my feet."

Sam sighed. "That's because I kept you from face-planting, Dean," he said wearily.

Dean looked at him, sniffed haughtily and handed him the keys, overly casual. "Remind me to pick up your Midol while I'm at the pharmacy, Samantha," he said as he walked to the car on shaky legs.

**O**

_February 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"You look mighty handsome," Florabel declared. "I ain't never seen a boy as fine as you, Pally." She crossed her legs Indian-style on the bed and put a marble between her toes and squeezed it until it popped out in a spectacular arc. She laughed as the marble flew up in a clean trajectory toward the head of the bed and bounced off the headboard. "Look what I done, there, Pally," she said proudly.

"That's amazing, Florabel," he said, watching the marble roll back down towards the foot of the bed. Emma gently wiped the last of the shaving soap from his face.

"There you go," Emma smiled. "All done. You sure you want to try and git up? We can bring your supper to you right here in bed."

Dean gently put his hand over his bandaged shoulder. It was still sore, but he was fidgety and anxious to move. The four walls of the small room had been closing in on him the last couple of days. The price of feeling a little better was a rabid case of cabin fever. He was going utterly stir-crazy. "I think I'd like to give it a try. My shoulder feels a bit better today," he said.

"Mama and Jeb made everything special, Pally. We even got butter for the cornbread tonight. Penny was a good cow and gave extra cream. She must 'a known you was gittin' up today," she said as she rocked back and forth and clapped the soles of her feet together like a seal.

"Florabel, you skedaddle now. We'll be out in a minute," Emma said as she scooted her daughter off the bed.

"Mama, I want to stay here," the child protested.

"No ma'am. You do as you's told, Florabel. You mind me, now," she said, leaving no alternative for the girl.

"You can sit next to me at dinner, Pally. I'll save you the best seat," she said as she gathered her marbles and stuck them in her pocket. Emma saw her to the door, but the girl turned at the last moment. "See you soon!" she said with a grin and a wave.

Emma shut the door and shook her head. "She's quite taken with you, Mr. Hetfield," she said, blushing a bit. "I hope she don't trouble you too bad. She don't have many friends. I cain't let her go to school in case a black blizzard comes up. We ain't got a car anymore to go fetch her, so she gets rambunctious from being penned in so much."

"It's 'Dean', and I'm pretty taken with her, too. She's a great kid," he said. "She's been good company."

"She talks too much. She got that from her papa. Never did know a man to jabber so much as Red," she said, but the memory caught her off guard. Even as she spoke her eyes wilted, and she suddenly looked away. When she turned back she was all business again. "You ready?" she asked as she prepared to get him into a sitting position.

"I'm sorry about your husband," Dean said. "Florabel told me that he passed away last year."

She nodded simply. "It's been a hard year," she said and cleared her throat in an attempt to keep things even. "Like I said, she talks too much." She smiled weakly, brushing aside the conversation. Dean felt a quiet respect for her avoidance, almost as if he could empathize with her wanting to keep her grief to herself. He just nodded and let it go. She gathered him up. "You ready for this?" she asked again, steadying them both before the pull.

He nodded again and braced himself. He felt like he'd left his stomach behind as he rose and he wound up yawing into the young woman's helpful embrace. It took a moment for the spots to clear before his eyes. He closed them a moment, hugging her arm like a pillar as he rebalanced himself. Emma held him patiently and let him cling to her. "You all right, Dean?" she asked finally.

His eyes opened slowly. "I think so. I just need a minute," he said, wondering if he'd actually been overly ambitious thinking he could just get up and go on about his business. He felt weak and unsteady.

"Do you need to lie back down?" she offered. "We can try this again later. There ain't no hurry."

"No!" Dean surprised himself by practically whimpering. He couldn't bear to lie in that bed another moment without a break, at least. "No," he tried again with a little less melodrama. "I'm good to go. I just needed a sec."

She nodded and turned away grabbing a shirt with her free hand. "Your shirt was all tore up when we found you," she said. "I have one of Red's shirts here that I cut the sleeve off of. We'll git that on you and then I made a sling that'll support your arm. I washed your trousers, but I think they may be too loose. You need to fill out some, agin. I have a pair of Red's overalls you can wear. You's a little taller 'n he was but I let the hems down. And even though it's chilly, I ain't gonna try and fight you into a union suit with your arm hurt as bad as it is. If'n you get cold, we'll just git you a blanket."

"I'll be fine, really," he tried to assure her. Truth was, though, he felt sick from the change in altitude and was wondering if he really should rethink his trip to the kitchen. Before he could say anything else, though, Emma was pulling the shirt over his head and gingerly situating his arm through the large hole where the sleeve had been. The woman soon became lost in her work and Dean just tried to grit his teeth through the humiliation of her guiding him into the pant legs and pulling them up until they were bunched around his thighs.

"I'm gonna have t'git you on your feet while I pull these up," she warned him. "I want you to lean on me, an' if you feel like you's gonna slip, you tell me so an' I'll git you right back down."

"OK," he said miserably.

He eventually made it up on his third try. But his arm was throbbing by the time he sat back down. Emma swung up the bib suspenders and hooked just the one over his good shoulder, allowing the other to just dangle. "We'll let that one be. Let's git you slung and your shoes on an' we'll go have dinner. I dunno about you, but I surely worked up an appetite," she said kindly, trying to divert him from the shame of just having been dressed by a stranger.

Dean suddenly felt lost and embarrassed. "Why are you helping me?" he asked as she began easing his arm into the sling she had made.

"What a question, Mr. Hetfield," she said, flushing.

He looked at her, trying to understand her, trying to understand all of this. "It's 'Dean'", he said and asked again. "Why would you help someone you didn't even know for all this time?"

Emma tied the sling, grabbed his boots and began working his feet into his socks and shoes. She finally looked up at him. "If you come across me hurt and senseless in your barn, would you just leave me a-lyin' there?" she asked. He blew out an incredulous breath.

"No," he conceded.

"Then why would you think we'd do something like that?" She shrugged. "You was hurt and you was here. There ain't no 'why' beyond that. I wouldn't no more leave a man in need of help than I would any other of God's creatures." She looked at his face, his expression half humiliated, half dubious. "You may not remember much about who you are or where you come from, but I got to wonder with all them scars you earned, what awful things you seen that would make you think folks wouldn't do you a kindness." He made no response, but he seemed to be trying to work through what she'd said. "C'mon Dean. You's all ready for the feast," she said and made a sweeping motion toward the door. "Shall we?" she asked with a smile and bent down to help him up. Once standing, she let him get his center before slowly helping him shuffle to the door. "You's doin' real good, Dean," she encouraged him. In the hallway Emma used the wall to brace herself as she took a good portion of his weight.

As they turned a corner, Dean could hear voices coming from a nearby room. They seemed to be quarreling.

"No no no, Slaid, you got it all wrong. I reckon if your brains was dynamite, there wouldn't be enough to blow your nose," said a male voice. "If'n you see a black blizzard and the dust is black, it come from Kansas. Everyone knows that. Black from Kansas, Red from Oklahoma and gray from Colorado or New Mexico. Y'can always tell where a storm come from just by the color. An' Kansas is dark black."

"Bah, Kansas is red," a strange voice insisted as Emma and Dean turned the final corner to enter the large country kitchen. Florabel was setting the table while an older man was stirring something in a large, cast iron kettle. The little girl spotted them immediately.

"Pally! You made it. You look so smart in them fine clothes!" she sang out, running over to greet him as though she hadn't seen him in ages. "We got stew and cornbread and butter!" she boasted. "Jeb and Mama, they made sure the stew is good and thick. Do you like stew, Pally? It's real good," she assured him.

"I'm sure I'll love it," he said as he tried to walk around her. He felt like he was going to fall if he didn't sit down soon. The child could sense his imbalance, though, and she ran and pulled a chair out. "You sit right here, Pally. I'll be sittin' right next to you if'n you need anything." Emma helped him sit at the corner chair nearest the backdoor while Florabel danced in circles around them.

Once he was sitting, the little girl made all the introductions. "This is Old Jeb. I told you all about him. He sat with you a lot when you was bad off," she said.

Jeb stretched out his right hand and gave the young man's a firm shake. "Mighty glad to see you up and about," he said. "Everyone was worried there for a day or two, but these two girls don't give up easy," he smiled and winked at Florabel.

"We surely don't, thank you very much!" Florabel agreed with a self-assured nod.

"I can see that," Dean said. "I'm very grateful to everyone for helping me out. I don't know what to say."

"Don't say nuttin'," Jeb said. "Emeline here is the most neighborly woman I ever did meet. I should know. I owe her more'n you do," he said. Emma just waved him off and started filling bowls.

"Ms. Livingston is the best woman in the county," Slaid agreed. Emma looked a little uncomfortable as she set a bowl down in front of the farmhand.

"This is Slaid," Florabel said. "He's the other farmhand I tol' you about," she said with a knowing nod at Dean.

Dean looked Slaid over. He was a man in his early thirties whose overly thin frame and large, deep-set eyes made him look slightly skeletal. His unkempt facial stubble grew all the way down his neck. Dean nodded to him. "Hey," he said in cautious greeting.

Slaid snorted and crumbled his cornbread in his stew and took a huge mouthful. "Devil fighter rises from the dead, ya?" he said, his bearing derisive. "Good. Slaid won't have to dig big, _big_ grave," he laughed as he took another large bite.

Dean watched him eat wolfishly for a moment. He could tell why Florabel didn't like him, monster or not. "You always talk about yourself in the third person, dude?" he couldn't help but ask. He saw Florabel smirk as she put a spoonful of stew into her mouth and chewed with a prideful glance at Dean.

Slaid licked a glob of gravy off his fingers and stared. "_Dude_?" he mocked.

Jeb cut in. "Emma says you don't remember how you got here," he said. "You had some kind of card that said OSHA on it. What was it that we said it stood for, Em?"

Emma sat down with a bowl of her own. "I don't recollect for sure. Something about safety and health," she said.

"That's right," Jeb remembered. "Occupational Safety and Health Administration. We was thinking you maybe worked for the government."

Dean felt all eyes on him. The words meant absolutely nothing to him. "I don't remember," he said. He took an awkward bite of his stew. It was really just meat and brown gravy, but it was warm and savory. He didn't realize how hungry he'd been until he tasted that first bite. "This is really good," he said.

"Mama made good and sure that hardly any dust got in it," Florabel said gratefully. "I don't taste hardly any grit at all." She buttered a piece of cornbread and handed it to him. "Put this in it, Pally. It makes it even better," she said.

The meal progressed with Florabel chatting away, which helped to keep any uneasiness at bay. Dean enjoyed the food and the company, with Emma's quiet demeanor, Jeb's easy laugh, not to mention, of course, Florabel's enthusiasm for everything. He couldn't eat much, though. He filled up very quickly and was wondering if he might have overdone it even with what little he did eat. By the time supper was over, his head was swimming. Emma got up and cleared the dishes away. "You boys want some coffee?" she offered. Dean perked up at the word.

"Yes, please," he said.

Jeb got up, "Let me help you, Emma." He set down a mug in front of Dean. "You remember if you take cream or not, Dean?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think so," he said and raised the mug to his lips. The hot, pleasantly bitter liquid passed his lips and he was suddenly transported elsewhere. He saw himself sitting at a table with a white mug in front of him. The longer he watched the scene the more his point of view shifted from observer to participant. There was still no memory of the event, but he was watching it unfold through his eyes. He looked down and could see the mug and feel its warmth as he cupped it in his grip. He was chatting with the same dimpled man he'd seen earlier. Sam. The boy was laughing at something as he dug into a plate of eggs. Dean felt a comforting familiarity as he watched him. The boy was shaking his head and laughing at something that had been said. He was so close, and Dean was certain if he could just touch him he'd remember who he was. Dean reached out, but his hand hit something else right before he could get to the boy. The moment his hand hit the other object the scene dissolved and he was back in the kitchen again. It was Emma that he'd bumped into as his hand had reached out. She'd seen him start to drift and had gotten up and approached him to try to steady him. Jeb had come around and had gripped him by his shoulders to keep him from falling out of the chair.

"Pally!" Florabel called, trying to reach her friend through the web of arms that were holding him. "It's OK, Pally. Don't fall over, now. We gotcha," she said trying to assure him.

Dean searched the faces of the people around him in confusion. The room was tilting oddly. "What's happening?" he said blinking listlessly.

"Devil fighter faints like a girl," Slaid said and laughed heartily. "Ya. We'll have to keep the salts handy for this one," he laughed again.

"You shut yer mouth, Slaid," Florabel leveled a deadly glance at him. "He cain't help it. He gits spells sometimes. Don't you make fun. It ain't nice," she spat out.

"Careful, child," he grinned. "Or the big bad wolf will get you," he teased. She gave him a hateful stare. He merely laughed and warped and twisted his spiny, long-nailed fingers into claws and growled out in an impersonation of a monster. The little girl squealed and latched onto Dean as she shook with fear.

"Slaid, you damn idiot," Jeb said. "Why you got to do that? You ain't right, you know that? I swear, somebody done stole your rudder at some point. And you wonder how she could git crazy notions about you," he said shaking his head in exasperated disgust. "You got no sense how to git along with people, and I cain't even excuse you on account of your foreign upbringing. I'm thinkin' where you come from, they'd still think you was an ass."

"Language, Jeb," Emma scolded and made sure Dean was steady before letting go.

Slaid blithely chewed on a piece of rabbit he dislodged with his tongue and shrugged with a grin. "I was just havin' some fun with the child. She knows I don't mean nothin'" he said. "I best go. Don't want to scare her. I'll leave her to tend the _Ördög_ fighter before he swoons again," he chuckled.

Dean's eyes went wide at that. "What did you just say?" he asked.

Slaid looked at him as he stepped around the table to reach the door. Just as he was about to pass, he pretended to trip and slammed into Dean's left shoulder roughly. Dean gasped out a cry of agony. The others gripped him to keep him from falling to the floor. Slaid bent in, close. "I said I'll leave her to tend the _Ördög_ fighter." Jeb pulled him off and shoved him out the door. Slaid looked up innocently. "I'm sorry. I tripped," he said shrugging coolly.

"Don't give me that, Slaid. I swear you's so crooked you could swaller nails and spit out corkscrews. Now, you git on out of here," Jeb called out as he slammed the door and turned back to Dean.

Dean tried to swallow air as the room dipped and pitched as though he were a dingy in a hurricane. He could see worried faces bob and float around him as he was jostled by the waves of pain. He could only hear out of his right ear, because his left was ringing and hammering with his own heartbeat. The kitchen darkened and the chatter around him began to sound more like whispers and mutterings, much like when he'd been held captive by the black storm. And then it occurred to him what had struck him so oddly about what Slaid had said. He'd said one of the words that those malicious winds had repeatedly uttered as they had tormented him. _Ördög_. He didn't know what it meant, but as soon as he was conscious again, he was going to find out, one way or another.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	7. At My Window Sad And Lonely

_**A/N: My thanks go to the incredible support system that I found in NongPradu, Beckydaspatz, and Numpty, who were with me during the writing of this story. Many of THEIR ideas and suggestions became part of this story. **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes and children in peril. See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers.**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 7: At My Window Sad And Lonely**

**O**

_February 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Dean gazed about, looking for him. Surely he was here, somewhere. He could feel his presence. It wasn't a remembered moment or even an observed scene. It was just the sense of the boy in the same void that Dean now found himself. Sam. Having Sam with him was warm and comforting. Safe. It felt right. It felt _known_ and _familiar_. He wanted to call out, to ask for his help—knowing that if he could only reach him, Sam would be there for him without question. He'd take Dean away from this room and this farm. He felt a certainty that Sam would have the answers that he needed. Sam _was_ the answer that he needed. He just couldn't quite reach…

His body felt sore and wasted from lying in the same position for…well, for however long it had been. Too long. Vague light filtered in through the sheet over the window, so it must be day, probably early morning. He assumed he'd been given more Laudanum at some point, since his eyes were a bitch to try and keep open, and there just wasn't a foghorn loud enough to prevent his wayward thoughts from foundering. He groaned and tried to find a less painful position, or, at least, he thought he did. It might have been all in his head. He drifted below the pain and the fog and went in search of Sam again. Even if he could not grasp the answers he needed, even if all he had was this unutterable aching void where his memories had been, he would at least have the solace of Sam's company.

Dean opened his eyes. Emma had entered the room at some point. Her back was to him, having just finished hanging up a newly wet sheet over the window. The room was much brighter than it had been the last time he'd cracked his lids, so he supposed hours must have lapsed despite having had no sense that any time had actually passed. Nevertheless, his head felt clearer now, and that was a positive step. He tried to shift his position to take the pressure off his back without agitating his shoulder. A frustrated sigh blew out as he felt the tingling pull in his arm as he moved. It wasn't as bad as it had been, but it was enough to hold him back. And piss him off.

"Dean," Emma said as she caught his movement and irritation. "You's awake. How do you feel?" She swept over to him and grabbed an extra pillow to help him find a better position.

He sighed, trying to keep his anxiety from showing too much. "I'm OK," he said with a slight edge despite his effort to flatten his tone.

"I know you's tired of lyin' here in pain," she said. "But you are gittin' better. It's just gonna take a little bit longer." She sat on the edge of the bed and helped him sit up a little more against the pillows. "I need to take a look at your shoulder and clean it up just a little." She reached for the bottle of Laudanum.

"No, please," he said, stopping her with his good hand. "I don't think I can take any more of that. I am going to go crazy from lying here and sleeping all the time. I should be OK without it."

She put the bottle down and nodded sympathetically. "All right, but you tell me if it gits too painful," she warned as she gently began peeling back the bandages and poultice from his shoulder. She laid a hot cloth over the wound and patted Dean's head when he stifled a hiss.

"It's fine," he said. "It's just hot. I'm good," he assured her. The woman nodded and started to gently wipe the area. Dean looked at the light coming from the shrouded window. "What time is it?"

"It's a little after 9:00 a.m. You been sleepin' for about thirteen hours. We had to give you something for the pain when you first come to, 'cause you was talkin' out of your head agin."

Dean clenched his jaw and felt the grit of dust between his teeth, which was as annoying and abrading as lying in this bed had become. He looked around the room. "Where's Florabel?" he asked, genuinely missing her enthusiasm and bright smile.

Emma quirked half a wry smile. "She's been pestering me all morning to let her come sit a spell with you. But she ain't done no schoolwork in days. I set her to workin' on some math and spelling. It's too dangerous to be sending her to school these days. Kids is passin' around measles to one another and they ain't no way to git her home if'n a black blizzard comes." She finished wiping the wound and gently examined it. "Well, no matter what happened last night, this is lookin' so much better, Dean. You cain't know just how far you come, but this is leaps ahead of where you was. All them angry red lines is gone, and they's almost no more infection in the wound. Probably be able to take the packing out for good tomorrow, and we'll just let it close up on its own," she said. She was quiet for a moment and sighed. "I'm sorry about what Slaid said and done last night," she said at last.

Slaid. Dean suddenly remembered the exchange and the _accidental _bump into his shoulder. He remembered that Slaid had pointedly spoken a word that had been a big part of the incantation that Dean had heard when he'd been held captive by the storm. Or whatever it was. Dean suddenly flushed hot with the desire to find the sonofabitch and force Slaid to tell him what he knew about how he'd come to be here. Because he may not know much, but the one thing he was positive of, he wasn't meant to be where he was, and Slaid probably had a hand in it. "Who the hell is that guy?" he asked. "Why would you let him treat Florabel like that? You know she's terrified of him, right?" He knew it wasn't his business, and he was extremely grateful for everything that Emma had done for him, but no matter how blurry last night had become, he could still feel how tightly the frightened little girl had clung to him when the douche-bag had bullied her.

Emma didn't appear to be defensive though. She nodded and looked him in the eye. "Florabel don't like him. That's a fact. And he knows just what buttons to push to get her goat. But she also has a big imagination. I ain't sayin' that's a bad thing, neither, but she cain't let her imagination run so wild that she accuses folks of doin' things they ain't done." She slowly bent Dean's arm and then stretched it out a little. "Does that hurt too much?" she asked.

"Not too bad," he said. "I think I can even move it a little now."

"That's good," she said encouragingly as she began lightly massaging the limb. "Florabel sees fairies in the chicken coop," she said with an embarrassed smile. "An' one day she came and told me they was a gnome in my cucumber patch." She put her hand in his. "Can you grip my hand at all?"

Dean squeezed her hand until the tingling became too severe. "There," he said with a wince.

"You got a strong grip, there. You's doin' real good. I bet you git most of your movement back without much of a fuss. Now that the swelling is going down in your shoulder, things is gonna move back to their rightful place agin. You wait an' see," she said as she kept working his muscles. "Florabel is scared of Slaid, because he don't have no sense and because he's superstitious and has an accent. But I'm thinkin' she ain't really seen him turn into a monster." She smiled and patted his hand lightly. "I know you cain't remember things real good right now, but people don't just change into monsters, Dean. That ain't the way the world works. Don't make her wrong for not likin' him, but she has to learn how to git along with folks."

"I don't think it's just his accent. There's something about him that I don't think is right," Dean said. He couldn't articulate what he meant, but he instinctively felt that Slaid was dangerous.

"Oh, he's rude and dull, but he done a lot of good for us, too. And I owe his mama a debt that I ain't ever gonna be able to repay," she said.

"His mother?" Dean asked.

"Slaid's mama was midwife to me when Florabel and Hen—Henry was born," she stammered. "Henry was my son," she said.

Dean looked at her. "Florabel told me about Henry. I'm so sorry," he offered.

Anguish feathered across her face, but she quickly shuttered the view. She nodded and pursed her lips and took a moment before going on. "I had a hard time birthin' Florabel," Emma said. "I was just nineteen years old, and it had been a long, hard labor. When she started comin' out, she was turned all wrong. Slaid's mama saved both our lives that night. It came real close for Florabel, in especial. She weren't cryin' or breathin' and we almost had to give up, but Slaid's mama held her up, rattled her a minute and then put her mouth over Florabel's and breathed life right into her." The young woman began redressing Dean's shoulder. "His mama died last year. Since then, Slaid's been here with us. I know he can be sore and un-neighborly, but I cain't just turn him out, neither. That would be disrespectful to his mama who kept us both alive. An' no matter what else he is or ain't, Slaid come through for me when Henry died. He watched over Florabel when I was too bad off with grief to do much those first few weeks. I ain't never gonna forget that kindness, no matter what. Not that I think he should just be rude to you or to Florabel. I gave him a stern talkin' to for what he done, and he shouldn't be botherin' either of you. If he does, you just let me know and I'll handle him." She finished her work and sat back a moment. "Try not to worry about him."

Dean digested that for a moment, knowing that he couldn't argue the point with her, at least not yet. "What does _Ördög_ mean? Slaid said it last night," he asked.

"I only know the gist of it," Emma said. "Slaid is mighty superstitious. He thought you was brung here by some spirit or shade 'cause of the way we first found you with all that damage around and you sleepin' in the middle of it all. Some of them boards weren't even from our barn. Don't know how they come to be there anymore than how you come to settle there."

"What kind of damage exactly," he asked.

"If'n I didn't' know better, I'd say it was a small twister or dust-devil that hit." She laughed at her own theory. "But I ain't never seen anything like that _inside_ a barn before."

Dean tensed at her words. "Was Slaid there?"

"I don't know where Slaid was that night. He never said he saw anything," she said.

"And _Ördög_ means what roughly?"

She shrugged. "I know it's Hungarian. I think it means _devil_ or _demon_. He called you a _devil fighter_. But like I said, he's mighty superstitious. I wouldn't put no stock in it."

Dean didn't say any more about Slaid. He'd have to investigate on his own. There was something going on, he could feel it. Emma either couldn't or wouldn't see it. In any case, she was a dead end. He'd look into it as soon as he could get the fuck out of this bed. "Emma," Dean said eventually. "I think I have a memory of some kind. It's confusing. I don't _exactly_ remember him, but I keep seeing a man. He has shaggy, dark brown hair. A tall guy, dimples—in his early twenties. Do you know anybody like that? His name might be Sam."

Emma looked at him and thought a moment. "I don't know nobody like that. But you was callin' for _Sam_ last night when you was in a bad way. I don't know him, but I reckon you do. You just don't remember him, yet. I lived in this town my whole life, an' I ain't ever seen you before, Dean. I don't think you's from anywhere around here. Maybe Sam is someone you know from where you first come from. Once you remember that, they's a good chance you'll know where to find him."

Dean ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. "This is so damned frustrating," he fumed. "He's important. I need to remember."

"Fevers do bad things to people, Dean. You's gittin' better every day. You'll remember in your own time. Don't fret," she said kindly.

**O**

_February 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Dean could barely remember his own name; the throbbing in his shoulder was too angry to think his way through. He'd been sitting on the lip of the tub for long enough that he was sure Sam was going to bust in any minute if he didn't pull himself together. He ran his hands through his hair, pooling enough energy to rise and remove his shirt. With a sigh, he stood and stifled an outcry as he eased his left arm and shoulder out of the fabric. He could see ribbons of red infection veining outward from the bandage. "Fuck," he winced as he slowly removed the gauze pad. "Mother fucker," he hissed as he looked at the vicious state of the bullet hole, now clotted and fat with pus. The edges of the wound were blackening into galled tatters of dying flesh. He had to shut his eyes and grip the sink to keep the dark spots from devouring him and sending him to the floor. After steadying himself, he turned on the sink and rinsed the wound with warm water. The sudden knock at the door, no matter how inevitable, sent jarring shocks of pain through his arm as he staggered back in a light daze. Turning, he locked the door quickly just as Sam went to open it. The younger hunter jiggled the lock.

"Dean, open the door, man," came his brother's concerned voice.

Dean fumbled with the tube of antibiotic cream, dropping it from his clumsy fingers. "Just give me a damn minute, Sam," he said as strongly as he could. He measured the daunting distance between him and the tube on the floor and hoped to fuck he could get back up once he retrieved the ointment.

"Just let me in, Dean," Sam said. Dean could feel the bitchface right through the door.

Dean picked up the tube and balanced himself again. He needed to sit, needed to take a moment before he fell, but he stubbornly held on and squeezed a generous helping of antibiotic on the wound. "Jesus Christ, Sam, give me a few minutes." He tore open a sterile bandage with his teeth and pressed it onto the wound, patting the adhesive tape to his hot, dry shoulder. His body shuddered with a suppressed moan. "You can't possibly want to see my junk that bad," he blew out quickly.

"That's not funny, Dean. Let me in. Let me help you, man."

"Sammy, I've been chokin' the chicken for—what?—fourteen years, now, all by myself. Thanks for the offer, though. I think I got it covered," he said as he pulled on his shirt rapidly, taking the pain all at once instead of piecemeal. He gripped his shoulder and doubled over, taking several ragged breaths as quietly as he could. "Perv!" he called out just so that he could belt out _something_.

"Goddamn it, Dean," Sam heaved, giving the door one final thump of defeat.

"I'm fine, Sam. I'm better today. It's healing, I swear. I'll be out in five," he assured his brother once he got his breath back. He sunk onto the toilet seat and wiped the sweat from his face. He braced his right arm on the sink and then rested his forehead against his balled fist. He wasn't fine. He wasn't better. But he sure as shit wasn't going to let Sam wallow in guilt over it. Eyeing a bottle of ibuprofen, he grabbed it with trembling fingers and dry-swallowed four tablets. He hoped it would be enough to get him through the next few hours of interviews. It was going to be a long day.

**O**

_February 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

He was done with this shit. It was past noon now, and he couldn't take another moment in this bed. He kicked the covers off and slowly sat up. It wasn't graceful, but he was on the rise and under his own steam no less. It felt extremely gratifying. He tried not to let the next twenty minutes that it took to get dressed bother him. He'd done it on his own. Well, most of it. He couldn't quite get the clasp of the overalls latched correctly, but he'd just leave it hanging for now. He grabbed the sling and tried to put that on, too, but completely got the whole thing buggered until he gave it up and decided to do without it. He held his arm close and headed out the door. When he got into the hallway he could hear Emma and Florabel talking quietly somewhere in the house and went in search of them. He wandered through the kitchen and through a large archway into an old dining area and into a smaller parlor. Emma and Florabel were consumed in their work. They were dipping long thin strips of sheets into a bucket of cream-colored sludge. When Dean cleared his throat, they looked up as one.

"Pally!" Florabel sang out jubilantly. She went to rush over to the young man, but her mother collared the child quickly.

"Hands, Florabel," Emma warned.

The little girl looked at her coated hands. "Rawr!" she growled displaying her gooey claws. "I'm a paste monster!"

"Wipe off, first," her mother said, handing her daughter a towel. "Dean," she said in greeting and rose from the floor. She noticed his unhooked overalls and the sling dangling uselessly in his good hand. "Gracious. Let me help you," she said.

"I—I just needed to get out of that room," he said.

Emma nodded. "I can well imagine," she said as she hooked the overall strap and started working his injured arm into the sling. "Let's sit you down and you can rest a spell. You can sit right here with us and if you need anything or want to lie back down, we'll git you fixed up in no time." Before Dean could reply, Florabel ran up.

"Pally!" Florabel crowed out as she ran to lean against his knee. "We's gonna weather the windows so the dust stays out, an' I git to work the paste!" she said. Emma pulled down the sheet that had been shielding the parlor's large picture window, revealing Dean's first view of the outside world. It was so striking and startling that he actually got up and went to the window to try and understand what he was seeing.

That he suffered from memory problems was undeniable, but this—this was all wrong. This was other-worldly. As far as he could see the dips and rolls of the land were gauzed in drifting, ashen dust. It rippled in endless dunes and divots, swelling to large drifts and then blowing away to reveal clumps of tortured grass lying flat. The battered tufts desperately clung to the unstable, naked earth as the wind ripped at their roots, marauding the nearby dirt and spinning it into the bleak sky. This was not Dean's world. It had never been his, he was absolutely sure of it.

"Wind ain't so bad today. Prolly gonna kick up agin, though," Florabel said as she shared his view. Dean looked at her. "It's the blow-season," she explained.

"What the hell happened here?" Dean asked turning back for another horrified glance. Florabel just shrugged.

"Language, Mr. Hetfield," Emma chided and glanced outside. "Same thing that's been happening for years now. Ain't been no rain to speak of. Lots of folks is givin' up and movin' to California." She started attaching a pasted strip of sheeting to the window sill. "We ain't gonna move, so we got to just try and keep the dust out. It cain't stay like this forever. Rain's gonna come back one day."

"But all the plants is dyin' of thirst, Pally," Florabel commented. "Old Jeb says that if'n it gets much drier the bushes is gonna start to follow the dogs around to try an' git a little sprinkle."

"Florabel, hush," Emma said, trying not to let her grin escape.

"What? That's what Old Jeb says, Mama. He would know," she defended.

Dean helped mold the sheeting to the highest corner when Emma started to strain to reach, but he still watched the dust shift and blow as he worked. He felt more alien and out of place than ever. The world was barren, twisted and hungry, and it made him feel achingly lonely and lost. He thought of the boy in his visions, of Sam, and he wondered how they'd come to be separated in the first place if they were as close as he thought they were, and how he'd ended up in this wasteland.

**O**

_Febrary 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"It's true that about half my crew is just farm-boys doing temp work. We're a small community, here, and we don't do all that much construction, so when we get a good sized job like this, we got to hire who we can. These boys are hard workers, though. They know their way around the trade. They ain't prissy college dummies." He leveled a dubious glance at the boys. Sam shifted slightly in his seat. "I can promise you, we're doing everything by the book," Gerry said.

"Well, we'd like to take a look around, just the same. Can you give us a tour?" Dean asked as he unconsciously rubbed his arm. Sam watched him and cut him off.

"You know what, Gerry? We're probably OK for now. Why don't you just tell us what's been happening here." Sam said as he looked from Dean to the contractor and back again. Dean gave him a _WTF?—_look.

"No, I think we should take a look, right Sam? Take a good look around and make sure everything is up to code?" Dean said with a nudging nod. Gerry watched the two like he was in the bleachers at Wimbledon.

Sam gave his partner a bitchy smile. "No," he said with an emphatic drop-shot. "We should just let Gerry tell us what's been going on first. Then he can show me around the place while you take care of that _thing_ you need to take care of." He served a look right back at his brother's shoulder.

Dean shrugged. "I think everything is taken care of, Sam. Not sure what you mean," he lobbed back obtusely.

Sam stared sourly. "Gerry," he turned to the confused but entertained contractor. "This land, who owns it? What kind of history does it have?"

"Huh?" Gerry asked.

"Well, we'd like to know for legal purposes, liability and all of that. And if there are any environmental issues going on, we'd like to know what the land had been used for." Sam clarified.

"The land is owned by the airport over yonder," he nodded toward the small airstrip that served the county. "But historically this land was just farmland. If I recollect right, this was Mad Dog's land for the longest time," he said as he visually thought back.

"Mad Dog?" Dean asked. "Who's that?"

"Mad Dog? Mad Dog was our Doc for years and years, since the 50's I reckon. Retired back in the 90's. Sill volunteers at the clinic and helps Doc Haffner out a day or two a month, though. Older than dirt and ready to cuss you out if you so much as look funny. Hell, more'n once Doc slapped me upside the head for doin' stupid shit when I was growin' up—like the time I broke my ankle while racin' grocery carts in the parking lot when I was eleven years old." Gerry chuckled at the memory. "Old Mad Dog smacked me first, then X-Rayed me second. I think this was Doc's land until it was sold to the airport. Most of the other farmland that was connected to this old farm was sold decades ago. Only this small parcel where the house and barn once stood was left. An' Mad Dog finally let it go to the airport. Doc's got another farm down south a ways. Still works the land a little, too. Organic farmin' or some such nonsense. But you don't argue with Mad Dog, no sir, you don't. Doc's got a vicious bite," he grinned. "But I'll write down the address for you an' you can go and see for yourself if Mad Dog knows more about what the land was used for. All I know for sure is that the land sat vacant for decades. Ain't no toxic waste dump, though. I can attest to that. It was all just farmland. Any other questions about liability is gonna have to be directed at the Transportation Authority, 'cause the airport is gonna have to answer legally." He wrote down an address and handed the slip to Sam.

"The house and barn. Do you know where they once stood?" Dean asked.

Gerry nodded. "Only know that from the old county papers we needed for building this site. The old farmhouse stood where the parking lot is going to be once we're done with the construction. The actual building just covers the land where some out-structures once was, the barn and some sheds. We found the old well shaft and done away with that early on."

Dean flinched as he resituated his left arm. "Do you know if anyone was buried on the land?"

"What the hell kind 'a question is that?" Gerry asked.

"We're just trying to cover all bases here. Need to know if there are any other…holes or—air pockets," Sam stammered. Dean looked at him and rolled his eyes and mouthed the word _smooth_ at him. Sam retorted with a silent _shut up!_

Gerry laughed. "You boys from OSHA or the Nancy Drew mystery-club? I think you been talkin' to Matt too much," he said laughing again. "Ain't no one buried on the land that I know about. We ain't dug no one up, that's for sure. But again, you can ask Mad Dog any of those questions. Now, you want me to show you boys around or not?"

"Yes," Dean responded.

"No," Sam said at the exact same time.

Gerry sat back and watched the two men continue to spar with their eyes. "You boys should watch some Dr. Phil. Do you both a world a' good," he laughed.

**O**

_February 21, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Despite having stretched his arm more than he probably should have the day before, Dean woke feeling his best yet. The wound was even beginning to itch. That in itself was a whole new kind of torment, but one that Dean was far more capable of withstanding than the bone-deep throb of infection. He was able to get the sling on without any help, which also improved his overall mood. Getting up, he poured some water into the basin and splashed his neck and face. He gripped the cabinet as a mild vision of him standing under a hot stream of water flit through his inner viewer. It was a…_shower_…fuck he wished the Livingstons had one of those things, but he was pretty sure they didn't. He added that to the list of reasons he needed to remember everything about his life and get back to it. Looking in the mirror, he wiped his face with a towel and ran his fingers through his hair that was lying limply against his skull and drooping slightly down his forehead in short bangs. That was all wrong, too. He fought with the mess one-handed for a moment but then just gave up. It was wrong, but he couldn't remember enough to make it right, either. Frustration was settling in when he heard Florabel release a tortured cry from a nearby room, and he was out the door before he even knew he'd moved.

The smell hit him before he even got to the kitchen. When he turned the bend he saw Emma holding her daughter and rubbing some kind of rancid ointment on her. He nearly recoiled from the feral stench.

"Florabel, you hold still and stop that fussin'. I'll be done in a minute," Emma persisted with her vigorous swipes. Slaid was sitting at the table drinking coffee and laughing.

"No one will want to git close to you now. Even the monsters will stay away," Slaid said as he made a whooping sound and plugged his nose.

"Slaid…" Emma warned savagely. "I ain't gonna tell you agin."

"Ow, Mama, no!" Florabel gave another ear-piercing yelp as Emma reached down her shirt and smeared the skunk fat and turpentine on her chest. "Mama!" she sobbed pitifully. When she caught sight of Dean standing in the archway her face suddenly crumbled with humiliation, and she buried her head in her mother's neck. "Don't smell me, Pally," she gulped before she wrenched out another sob. "Don't smell me. I'm disgusting," she wailed.

"Hey, what's all this?" Dean bent down and looked at Emma while the little girl fought to rein in her sobs.

Emma shook her head half in sympathy, half in frustration. "She gits a bad cough from the dust. The skunk oil and turpentine loosens the dirt and gits it up and out 'a her lungs. She don't like the smell of the skunk oil," she said and pulled her daughter back from where the child had attached herself to her neck and started rubbing more ointment on her chest. Dean had to turn his head away because his eyes were starting to water this close, but the child's wounded sobs pulled him back.

"Hey, don't cry, Florabel," he said. "That skunk oil doesn't fool me for a minute. I can still smell how pretty you are underneath it." He reached out and patted her back. The little girl fought her tears but still cried as another application was applied.

"I ain't gonna smell nice for days now," she snuffled.

Dean thought a moment. "Well, you know, the dust is making me cough a lot, too. Now, I don't remember things too well, it's true, but I don't think there's as much dust where I come from. My lungs aren't used to all this," he said and coughed in demonstration. Steeling himself for a moment, he dipped two fingers into the ointment and rubbed a little on his neck and chest. "There. We smell exactly alike now." He cleared his throat and swallowed against an earnest reflex to gag. He tried not to breathe as he gave her a nod and his best, winning smile. Emma looked at him with dumbfounded admiration.

The child giggled through her tears. "We both smell horrible," she said, licking a tear off her lip.

Slaid got up. "Slaid cain't take the stink. Best go an' help Jeb check traps." He slammed the door on the way out.

Dean and Florabel looked at each other and grinned. Dean nodded to the spot vacated by Slaid and wiggled his eyebrows. "Well, see? There's always a silver lining, right?" Dean said. "High-five me," he said holding up his hand.

"High-what?" Florabel asked not understanding his game, but she couldn't help but laugh at his naughty expression.

"A high-five," he said, coaxing her. "Here…slap my hand," he said as he waved it in the air above her. She gleefully slapped his palm. "All right! There you go," he grinned.

"You's a little strange, Pally," she teased. "Gittin' all smelly and smackin' five. I ain't never done that before. You think they do that a lot where you come from?"

"I guess they must," he said as confusion settled in. He wondered where any of that had even come from. Emma interrupted his thoughts.

"I'm going to git some eggs and grits cookin'. You think you's ready to try some?" she said as she wiped the rest of the skunk grease off her hands.

Dean nodded. "I'm starving, actually," he said. "I'll try anything."

Florabel grabbed his right hand and pulled. "Come on, Pally. While Mama fixes breakfast, you come an' play marbles with me, please?" she urged.

"Florabel, don't you be forcin' him to play with you. He still needs his rest," she scolded and apologized with a glance at the man.

"It's fine," he assured her. "I don't know how to play marbles, though," he admitted. "You'll have to show me."

Florabel pulled him into the parlor where they were weather-stripping yesterday. She pointed to a spot on the floor. "You sit right here, Pally. I'll mark the circle." She started pinning yarn down on the large throw rug making a circle about three feet in diameter. She stole a glance into the kitchen to make sure her mother was too busy to overhear. "My mama plays with me sometimes," she said in a hoarse whisper and looked at Dean expectantly.

"Oh yeah?" he answered. "Is she a good player?"

"She's good at just about everything, Pally," she boasted. She stopped her work and thought for a moment, looking at the wall as though it held secrets. "Do you think my mama is pretty?" she asked finally.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. He wasn't expecting that question. "Why would you ask something like that?" The little girl gave him an innocent shrug and a smile.

"Just wonderin'," she said smoothly as she went back to setting up the game-circle. "I think she's pretty. An' my papa said she was the prettiest girl in Oklahoma," she said with pride. She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked it in thought for a moment. "Of course, she's old now. She's something like twenty six or twenty seven years old!" she admitted with a breathy whistle. "But for bein' that old, I think she's pretty. Don't you?"

Dean felt nine kinds of awkward. "Uh," he fumbled. "Yeah, she's pretty." Florabel nodded as if it was a no-brainer.

"She is. And you's mighty handsome. I bet a nickel that Mama thinks you's handsome, too," she prompted. When Dean just looked at her flatly, she rocked back and forth on her knees. "You know," she finally had to spell it out. "So maybe you can kiss her and you won't need to remember nothin' else but our farm," she said boldly.

"Florabel…" Dean said, holding up his hand to stop her charge. "I don't think things work like that." He tried to let her down gently. "Your mama is pretty, but she's still real sad about your papa and Henry."

The little girl nodded her head. "I reckon that's a fact," she admitted. "But she ain't a-gonna git happy agin until she ups and decides to think about somethin' else. An' she don't say it, but she likes you. I can tell."

Dean shook his head, embarrassed. "How would you know that?" he scoffed. Florabel regarded him seriously, though.

"Because her eyes smile when she looks at you. An' that ain't happened since before my Papa died," she said. "Mama is pretty, but she looks even prettier when her whole face smiles, not just her lips."

Dean was at a loss. He didn't know what to say, so he just said nothing. The last thing he wanted to do was upset this family's world. He owed them more than he'd ever be able to repay, but he was certain that he didn't belong here. The particulars of his past were a mystery to him, but he knew that there was something important that he was supposed to be doing, and he sensed that his arrival here had been entirely unintentional. Once he remembered his life, he'd have to leave. He could feel it. Picking up a marble and turning it in his fingers, he cleared his throat. "So how do you play this game?" he said, changing the subject.

Florabel watched him for a moment, but then shrugged, taking the marble from him. "It's real easy and fun, Pally." She counted out thirteen marbles and tossed them inside of the circle. "Now we ain't gonna play for keepsies, because you don't got no marbles. But all you do is take this shooter," she said handing him a large marble. "And you knuckle down, like this," she held her own shooter tucked in between her thumb and crooked forefinger and rested her hand on the ground, knuckles down. "And you try to knock as many mibs out of the circle as you can." She flicked her shooter and hit a few marbles but didn't hit any of them beyond the border of the circle. "OK, I didn't git any outside, so I lost my turn. Now you go. If you hit any outside, then you git to go agin. Keep your shooter in the circle, though!" she warned.

Dean felt a profound sense of familiarity, as he sized up the marbles on the surface and planned out his move. He knuckled down and let the shooter go. The instant that he heard the clack of marble against marble he found himself far, far away. As the vision came into focus he saw that he was in a dimly lit room, bent over a large, green table. He heard the satisfying smack of cue on ball and the expected thump as the ball fell into the pocket. He grinned up at Sam who returned the smile along with an eye roll of mock exasperation as Dean cackled triumphantly.

The sense of kinship and shared bond pulled so strongly at him that Dean couldn't help but reach out again. Sam was right there holding that pool cue. The need to reach him was more instinctual than his need to eat or drink. He fought against the tugging that he felt as the little girl pried his eyes open and tapped his face. He didn't want to go back. Sam was right fucking there, and if he was close enough to touch, he'd be close enough to remember. He groaned out in protest as the room melted away and the Livingston's parlor came into view.

"Where's Sam?" he said drowsily as he looked from Florabel to Emma. He struggled to sit.

"Dean," the woman said. "Stay still a moment. Catch your breath before you try and git up."

"Ugh," he said and got his right arm out from underneath him. He noticed marbles scattered everywhere and remembered he'd been playing with Florabel. He reached up and rubbed the rug-burn he'd gotten on his forehead when he'd fallen forward. "Sonofa…" he stopped short when he saw Florabel patting him. He was still confused. "Sammy?" he said again.

"Don't worry, Pally. It's just me and Mama. We gotcha. Ain't nothin' to worry about. You don't need Sam. You got us," she said with tearful eyes that melted his heart.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	8. Fox And The Goose

_**A/N: This story has been beta'd by Beckydaspatz, Numpty, and NongPradu, and I am so dadgum grateful! Both Becky and Numpty are currently posting WIPS that I am beta-ing (Becky's "Devil Within" and Numpty's "The Trick Is To Keep Breathing", and they are fabulous!), and NongPradu is just a fuckin' rock star who's work I have worshiped since I first found fanfic. Go read their stuff, y'all!**_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes and children in peril. See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers.**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 8: Fox And The Goose**

**O**

_March 15, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Anemic sunlight filtered through the window he gazed out of, light and shadow mottling his face with the mirrored projection of the splotchy, fingerprinted glass. The wind mourned ceaselessly in long, frigid wails as it whipped past the eaves. The shrill keening made Dean shiver more than the actual cold radiating off of the window itself did. He shrunk into his union suit a little further, clasping the last few buttons with chilly fingers. He was grateful that Emma had given him the long underwear. The days spent with the Livingstons had now spilled into weeks, the only real warmth being provided by the kindness of the family sheltering him. Despite the calendar, though, spring had yet to touch this anorexic moonscape. It was hollow and vacant—much like Dean's stomach had become more often than not these days. All the more reason to appreciate the union suit that helped to protect his shrinking body from the cold that now seemed to incessantly nag at him.

The cold wasn't the only thing that badgered him, however. Like the grains of dust that wormed their way through the tiniest chinks in the pasted window-seams to harrow the women he was growing attached to, Sam seemed to infiltrate Dean's subconscious. No matter how comforting the initial contact always was, whether it was a dream by night or a vision set off by some seemingly innocuous, mundane task by day, the frustration of not being able to put the boy into the context of his life was as abrasive as the dust that stung and chipped away at the wind-savaged landscape. It was constant and ruthless. And regardless of his repeated attempts, he could not grasp hold long enough for true recognition to spark. The only understanding these dreams and visions gave him was a sharp and pointed sense of urgency and danger. He was convinced that his missing memories were vital to the safety of everyone he came in contact with. His senses told him that a ferocious storm was brewing, and without his memories he'd be powerless in the face of it. With or without oncoming danger, however, Dean felt as though he was at the mercy of his environment, and like a Russian thistle ripped from its anchor in the earth and sent to tumble through the desolate dunes, he felt upended and rootlessly tossed wherever the wind decided to take him. He needed to remember his life.

All attempts to backtrack his steps had resulted in nothing beyond the impenetrable, black vortex. He simply could not get past those turbulent winds and sibilant whispers unless violently thrown there with no say in the matter, and, then, only as an observer to watch confusing snippets, presumably from his past, play themselves out. He'd questioned everyone about the day he arrived, but beyond finding him at the epicenter of what appeared to be an impossible dust-devil _inside_ the barn, there was nothing else to relay. Everyone seemed to take it in stride as they had every other blow they'd sustained over the past several years. At this point, they simply worked with the hand they'd been dealt, and they moved on. They certainly did not appear to be hiding anything. Except Slaid.

Dean could smell the deception on him, stronger than skunk-oil and turpentine. Emma, however, had made it clear to Slaid, Florabel, and Dean alike that she would not tolerate any contention. _Things is bad enough without folks scrappin' aginst each other! Y'all mind me, now!_ He had to agree with Florabel; when Emma used that tone, you felt pretty inclined to do as she said. So, Dean did not outwardly challenge Slaid. He watched him, though—watched him go out daily to 'check traps' and, more often than not, come home with nothing, which was odd, since Jeb had no trouble filling the house with jackrabbits. The county was so plagued with the pests that large drives were being planned to round them up and take them away. Florabel had been begging for Emma to allow them to participate in one just as soon as Dean's shoulder was healed enough. Yet, despite the inundation of rabbits and their ready availability, Slaid rarely brought any home from his hunting trips.

Slaid mostly kept his distance since Emma had laid down her law. He'd sullenly eat his meals, usually while quietly eyeing Dean and Florabel as they joked and laughed together, and then he'd leave. Dean tried to follow him once, but Emma stopped him from going out in the dust and wind. She'd been a task-mistress when it came to his shoulder, but the fact that it had healed as well as it had was due in no small part to her vigilance. Dean tried as hard as he could to submit himself to her care without fussing. Every day the pins and needles in his arm and fingers lessened, and he was able to grip things again—not as strongly as with his right hand, but he'd every reason to believe he'd have full use of the limb in a few weeks. Nevertheless, at Emma's insistence, he'd been relegated to the indoors, with the exception of quick visits to the outhouse. In order to keep his sanity, he'd helped Florabel weather-strip every window in the house, both upstairs and down, the two of them often winding up with more paste on them than on the windows. After one such paste-war, however, Emma insisted that they wash their own clothes. That had somewhat put the kibosh on throwing paste-balls at each other.

Florabel and Dean had become nearly inseparable. In the evenings they'd hold marble-competitions that even Jeb and Emma would come and watch. Dean'd usually throw most of the games, but he always made sure she was challenged. The little girl had shown him how to hunt for centipedes to rid the house of the pests that she would then take out to feed to the chickens. When he'd had a particularly gruesome episode the first time he pried up the floorboards in search of centipedes, Florabel was right there to quietly bring him back to reality. He'd had a horrifying vision of working with Sam to pry up the rotting boards of an ancient coffin, revealing an old, desiccated corpse. When Florabel had asked what he'd seen, he just said that Sam had been helping him with something, but the vision had shaken him badly. After that, he started having nightmares involving Sam and him digging graves and fighting macabre creatures in the dark. The dreams frightened him, but, far more than that, they added to that sense of urgency that needled him constantly. Sam was the only constant in those dark dreams; yet, his frustrating inability to latch onto any tangible memory of the boy was infuriating. Each and every dream resulted in Dean desperately reaching out to him, and every dream ended in a failure to make contact.

He buttoned up his over-shirt and latched both hooks on his overalls, giving the cold, swirling dust one more glance through the window. Florabel barreled in through the door, nearly exploding with excitement.

"Mama says you can come and meet Molly today, Pally. We got to git a move on! All them centipedes is trying to crawl out of the pail!" she said as she somersaulted onto the bed and began jumping up and down on her knees.

Dean hung the wet sheet over the window, blocking out the dust and, for the time being, his growing concern. "Well, we better shake a leg, then, huh?" He held the door open for her as she pirouetted out of the bedroom.

After making sure that the screen door didn't slam on their way out of the house, Dean nearly bumped into Florabel who had stopped and set her pail down. She was standing still, holding her finger high in the air.

"C'mon, Pally. You got to do this, too," she instructed. She nudged him with an elbow to his thigh. He smirked a little and held up his finger. "No no, silly. You have to suck it first, so's you can feel the wind."

"I already feel the wind. It's everywhere," he said as he turned to avoid getting hit face-on by a grainy gust.

"Pally, it's important. You have to do this every morning. Watch me, now," she said. She wiped off her finger and plunged it into her mouth, taking it out only when it was generously coated and stringy with spit. "See? Now you," she said.

Dean licked his finger and held it up. "What exactly are we trying to do?" he asked.

The little girl shrugged. "You just have to do it. It's what papas are supposed to do," she said with a side-long glance.

Dean's finger dropped and slipped into his pocket. "I'm not a papa," he said as casually as he could.

"No," she admitted. "Not yet you ain't." She picked up the pail and tossed her waist-long braid behind her. "C'mon. Molly really wants to meet you," she chirped.

The two of them battled the cold, swirling wind that corkscrewed around them, kicking grit into their mouths and eyes as they made their way down to the chicken-coop. When they arrived, Dean was glad that the barn blocked most of the wind. His breath had been nearly stolen away and he was shivering. "Man, it's freakin' cold out here. Doesn't it ever get warm?"

Florabel nodded. "It does, Pally. It gits so hot in the summer that you cain't think straight. Just you wait 'n see." She clapped her hands as they approached the coop. "There! There she is! That's Molly. Do you see her, Pally?" She pointed and squealed as the red-feathered chicken broke away from her brood and waddled enthusiastically toward the child. "Ain't she purty?"

Dean opened the gate as the child ran to greet her friend. "She sure is, Florabel."

"Molly is the best. Me 'n her have been friends since she was a chick. We's bosom buddies. Just like me an' Lizzy Crawford. You ain't met her yet, Pally, but she's real nice. She's so purty y'cain't help but like her, but she ain't the kind to be mean if'n you ain't as purty as her. She was my best friend until…" she grinned as she set down her pail and looked up at Dean. "Until you come. You's my best friend, now," she said plainly. She reached out and picked up the docile chicken. "Come see her, Pally. She won't peck at ya."

Dean came over and bent down so he was eye-level with the girl and the bird. "She is real pretty," he said. "She's the brightest, prettiest chicken in the whole yard."

"She is," Florabel agreed as she brushed her cheek affectionately across the bird's red feathers. She set the chicken down and picked up her pail. "She loves to eat centipedes, too," she said as she reached into the pail and fought a squiggling bug, prying it off her finger as the insect snaked itself around the small digit. She flicked it in the bird's direction. Molly clucked and made a gobbling dash for it, rousing the interest and appetites of the rest of the brood. A wild cacophony of clucking filled the small yard as the other chickens scurried after their bright red sister. "Here," Florabel said handing him the pail. "You just tip it over and let the critters fall. The chickens won't let none of them git away." They watched the chickens sprint after their breakfast. "Now, while they's distracted we go git the eggs," she said. Ducking into the coop and rooting around a moment she finally held up an egg in demonstration. She handed it to Dean. Dean was setting it carefully in the pail when he heard footsteps approaching from somewhere behind them.

"Well if it isn't Dean and the little Doodlebug," Jeb called out in greeting as he ambled over. Slaid followed a few paces behind.

"Mornin' Old Jeb!" Florabel called out, spinning around just as a large wall of dust slammed into them.

"Wind is kickin' up agin," Jeb said. He turned to Dean. "Emeline finally sprung ya?"

Dean reached out and gripped the old man's hand in a friendly gesture and even nodded to Slaid. He was trying to play nice. "Yeah," he said. "The shoulder is feeling pretty good. Being able to get out and move makes it feel even better. The wind is a bitch, though."

"Welcome to the Panhandle, son," Jeb laughed. "Say, if'n you feel fit enough, might want to git you an' Slaid here to come take a look at the barn. I got the door hung so's to keep the dust away from Penny, but they's still a lot of work to do to make it right on the inside agin." He turned to Slaid. "You reckon me, you and Dean can start workin' on that?"

Slaid pivoted toward Dean and hurked up a sinus full of snot, swishing it around his mouth a moment before spitting it out. The snot-wad hit the dust and balled up into a large, gritty glob at Dean's feet. "Devil fighter broke it. I reckon he can fix it without Slaid. You two go look at the barn."

"Jehoshaphat, Slaid you ought never to pass up a chance to shut yer yap. You know that, boy?" Jeb said with a derisive snort. The other farmhand just grinned and nodded toward the chicken-coop.

"I'll help the little one collect the eggs," he said and reached his fingers out to grasp the pail. "Isn't that right, Florabel? You 'n me will stay here and look after the chicks, ya?"

Florabel's expression plummeted and she instinctively moved behind Dean. Dean held the pail out of Slaid's reach, but remained cool. "Naw, man, that's OK," he said, bending down with his stronger arm and picking Florabel up. The child instantly clung to him like a frightened spider monkey, each limb braiding around his body in a terror-fueled hug. He could feel her body shaking as she held on fiercely. "Florabel can come check the barn out with us." Gently pulling her head back from where she'd burrowed into his neck, he spoke to her. "Then you 'n me can get the eggs afterwards, that sound good? Besides, you still need to teach me the right way of collecting them, yeah?" Her eyes refused to budge from the ground. She plunged back toward the shelter of his neck and just nodded. "OK, Jeb, lead the way," Dean said, as he carried Florabel from the chicken-coop. He latched the gate behind him and followed Jeb. The tenseness in the little girl's body had his senses prickling. That she didn't like Slaid was a given, but this reaction was beyond dislike. Drawing slow circles on her back to assure her, he spoke quietly in her ear. "You're OK. Pally's got you. I ain't gonna let anything bad happen to you," he soothed.

Another bitter gust ripped through the chicken yard as Slaid watched Dean and Florabel round the corner of the barn and disappear. Rage and hatred blew through him, far more bitter than the shrieking wind. He'd been bringing offerings daily to the Hala for the past several weeks, but he'd received no blessing and gained no control over or power from the demon. Emma and Florabel had, in fact, pulled further away from him, concentrating their friendship and, no doubt, their affection on the stranger who'd rode the Hala into this world. Each passing day saw the bond deepening between the three of them. Something must have gone terribly wrong during the summoning ritual, because this was not what the elemental was supposed to have produced. At the same time, Slaid felt a potency emanating from the stranger. He feared him. Despite his wounds and weakened state upon arrival, he knew Dean was inherently dangerous. And now that he was almost healed, Slaid had been keeping his distance and watching his new rival carefully, trying to figure out his next move without arousing suspicion or concern. It was true that the young man's weight had diminished drastically due to illness and lack of food. Still, Slaid knew he'd be no match for the Devil-fighter, physically. Whatever plans Slaid made, he couldn't be overt about them. Dean's arrival had all but rendered the farm-hand invisible in the eyes of the women he sought to control. He decided to use that seeming insignificance to his advantage.

He rapaciously watched the chickens fight the wind as they strove to remain upright with each gust that assaulted their plump, wind-weary bodies. He thought about all of the jackrabbit offerings he'd made. The warmth of their blood had taken the edge off his own personal hunger, but none of them had pleased the Hala. He pondered what offering might appease the demon and bend the women's affection towards him. Perhaps if he offered something they loved, the wind-demon would be swayed to perform for Slaid. Another surge of dust sent Molly and her sisters scrabbling at the earth as they tumbled across their small yard. Slaid twined his fingers in the chicken wire and watched the birds struggle.

**O**

_February 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

He was confused. He didn't know what was going on, whether he'd been eating ice-cream or what, but he was experiencing one fuck of a brain-freeze. The sharp ache in his head wasn't going away like a brain-freeze would, however. Compounding the sharp headache was the fact that he was shivering uncontrollably. He tried to reach up and rub the cold out of his head, but the movement caused a storm of pain to shoot up his neck, across his scalp and down into his arm. He opened his eyes, but his thoughts were so slow and undeveloped that he couldn't quite comprehend where he was at first. He just knew that he was cold.

"Th'f'k, Sam?" he slurred, as he straddled the liminal cusp between sleep and waking. There was no answer except the soft plunk of slushy raindrops on the roof of the Impala. _Ah, the Impala. Mystery solved! _He tried to pry his forehead off the cold window it was plastered against, but he couldn't think clearly enough to remember how to go about doing that. "Sam?" he called again, in between teeth-chattering gasps. When no answer was forthcoming, concern and worry for his brother superseded his stupor and pain, and he sluggishly pushed himself into an upright position. "Fuck!" he moaned as he grabbed his shoulder.

Letting gravity do most of the work, his head lolled to his left, allowing him a glimpse of the empty driver's seat. No Sam—just the reflection of the rain that was hitting the windshield. He vacantly watched the phantom raindrops trickle down the empty seat, while the perpetual tapping on the roof lulled him towards sleep again. Just as his eyes started to close, he decided that consciousness was a priority, and he began to work for it. He shook his head and sifted through his spotty memory of recent events.

They'd been talking to…_fuck_…some dude. _Names are overrated._ _The contractor dude_—they'd gotten as much information about the obviously haunted construction site from him as they'd been able to, but Gerry…_that was his name!_...didn't know shit. Other than supplying the name and address of the past owner, the dude had been useless. After that, Dean'd spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening arguing with Sam. His brother had pitched a fit over the bullet wound in his shoulder that had, even Dean now had to admit, developed into a rip-snorting infection. The elder hunter had pulled out all the stops in order to get the younger to back off, but after enduring half a dozen bitchfaces and several threats to hogtie him, drug him, or otherwise incapacitate him against his will, he finally promised that they'd head up to the Roadhouse to see if Ellen had any stronger meds. Sam had finally been placated enough to agree to go check the construction site before they headed out. _Fuck_. He must have fallen asleep on the way over. _Jesus Christ_.

He blinked his eyes several times, trying to get them wide enough to stay open on their own. As he slowly focused, he noticed a receipt taped to the dash with a blue banana sticker. God, Sam and his bananas. What a girl. Dean pulled the note off with his only working hand and brought it close enough to read the pussy's flowing handwriting.

_You're running a fever. STAY! BRB. –S _

"Like hell, Sammy," he said as he wadded up the receipt and tossed it into the backseat. It took a few frustrated attempts to open the door before he realized it was locked. Pulling up the knob, he irritably pushed the door open so fast that he nearly spilled out onto the wet gravel. Flinging his right hand out and grasping onto the open door, he was able to save the fall. He waited for a moment for his vision to clear before getting out and holding his balance until he'd mastered standing. He cradled his arm and did the zombie-shuffle toward the building, getting half way before remembering he hadn't brought the salt-gun. He reached behind him and verified that his Colt, at least, was there and loaded with iron bullets. Entering at the west-end of the building, he slipped through the tarp-covered doorway.

He didn't notice any movement; although, it was too dark to be sure of anything. He slapped his pockets for a flashlight, but he'd left that behind as well. Fucking fever was making him stupid. Didn't matter. He wouldn't have been able to hold both the light and the gun, anyway. "Sammy?" he croaked out. The word fell flat, and the entire world abruptly tilted to the right. Swaying with the roll, he staggered into an unfinished wall. "Sammy?" he called a little stronger. At this point he just wanted to make sure Sam was safe before admitting defeat and letting his brother help him back to the car. Ellen's place was sounding really good at this point. He was so going to nap the entire way up there.

There was no answer to his feeble calls. He worked his way deeper into the structure, gripping the wall-studding as he ventured further in. He was getting worried. "Sam!" he called one more time before remembering that it was the 21st Century and cell phones were a nifty perk of the era. "Fuck me," he chided himself. He fumbled with his gun for a moment, looking at each limb, trying to decide where it might be best to stow the weapon while he got his cell phone out of his pocket. He was too tired to think, and he really, really wanted to talk to Sam, so he let the gun drop with a thud. He pulled out his cell phone and cleared his throat, trying to get any trace of pain out of his voice. Sam picked up on the first ring.

"Goddamn it, Dean. I told you to stay." Sam lit into him without his brother saying a single word. "I'm back at the Impala. Come back. The place is empty. At least there's no activity tonight. I looked around for an hour, man. It's quiet." Dean could hear Sam's angry foot-stomps on the gravel as he talked.

"Oh," he said listlessly. "OK, Sammy," he said with vague, childlike obedience. He turned around and fumbled into another wall, ricocheting off of it slightly. "Ow! How th'fuck did a wall get h'r?" he said drowsily.

"Hang on, Dean," Sam seethed. More stomping crunches, faster now. "I'm coming back. Don't move, damn it."

"I won', S'mmy. Imma stay righ' h'r. I'm in a big building-thing," he announced as he roved aimlessly through the structure.

"Yeah, I got that, Dean. Just," Sam stammered, mastering his own worry. Dean sounded completely out of it. "Just stay where you are."

"'K, I'll stay righ' h'r. Won' move," he promised. "It's really cold, S'mmy," he said.

Sam sighed. "That's because you have a fever. We're going to the Roadhouse and we're going to get you fixed up,"

"Yeah, I know, dude, m'not delirious. I mean, it's _cold_." His breath smoked out in a puffy cloud. "Did y'see wh'r I put my gun, S'mmy?" he asked, his tone slurred but completely untroubled. He began shuffling around looking for his discarded weapon. Just as he rounded an unfinished hallway that led back into the large, open room he'd first entered, he spied the colt on the floor. "Ah, th're it is. Found it S'mmy. S'cool," he assured his brother. He lurched away from the wall-studding like a toddler breaking away from the support of a couch. Tottering forward, he nearly fell into the arms of a skeletally thin ghost. Dean stared dumbly at it, his fevered neurons failing to fully ignite. He waved his hand and phone through the apparition and pulled back. "Awww Crap!" he said, looking at the rimy residue on his hand as he dropped the frosted cell phone in surprise. "That fuckin' h'rts, dude." He could hear Sam clomp-stomp into the building, shouting Dean's name as he came. "In h're, S'mmy," Dean yelled and turned back to blink at the ghost. The spirit flickered a few times before achieving a steadier image. It looked Dean up and down. "Wha're you lookin' at?" Dean asked, returning the judgy once-over. In response, the ghost merely grinned, growling deep in its throat and raising its hands. Electricity began to pulse up and down its fingers and arc from one hand to the other and back again, almost as though he were pulling taffy. Just as Sam came loping into the room with the salt-gun, the apparition's eyes gleamed.

"It's been a long time, _Ördög_ fighter," it said as it turned its palms towards Dean.

"Dean, _down_!" Sam bellowed as he strode up, his sawed-off raised, his expression intent and deadly. Dean was too slow to respond, however, and the spirit got the first shot off. The specter let out a growling roar and blasted Dean with energy, sending him flying into Sam. Both of them careered into the wall-studding several feet away. The ghost flickered and moved toward them just as a ferocious wind started to blow.

**O**

_March 15, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Black dirt swirled around the trio as they entered the barn and shut the door to block out the worst of the gusts. The smell of cow hung heavy in the dusty air; although, Dean thought he also detected the faint odor of decay. Perhaps a small animal had taken shelter somewhere in the barn and never found its way back out. He didn't give it any more consideration, however. The little girl's shuddering body wrapped tightly in his arms was his sole focus. Setting Florabel on the ground, he crouched down and set his hands on her shoulders. She was still looking at the ground.

"Hey, Florabel, you OK, sweetheart?" he asked, putting a hand on her chin and tilting her head up to his. "Florabel?" The little girl studied her shoes and nodded. He bent down even further to interrupt her line of vision. "You don't look OK, what's going on, kiddo?" Florabel looked from Jeb to Dean and then just shrugged. "Come on, you can tell us."

"She always gits like that when Slaid comes too close," Jeb said. "She don't like him much a'tall. He's mean enough to steal a coin off a dead man's eye, I'll grant you that." He laughed and pet her hair. "But, she thinks he done turned into a monster once. Ain't that right, dolly?"

"He did, Old Jeb. Exceptin' you and mama don't believe me. He turned into growlin', fearsome monster. He just don't growl so bad when you 'n Mama are there," she said as she leaned into Dean for safety. "It was awful, Pally," she snuffled and laid her head on his shoulder as he drew her in.

Jeb chuckled. "Did he change into a monster before or after you spotted them dragon eggs next to Molly?"

Florabel swept up and spun around, facing the older man. "Them dragon eggs was just pretend. I know they ain't for real. But Slaid is. I seen it with my own eyes. He just don't change unless we's alone." Her eyes smoked with defiance. Dean didn't know what to think. The child seemed so sincere, but he also remembered his conversation with Emma. The one thing he was sure of was that Florabel was terrified, and he was not going to let Slaid anywhere near her. The farmhand would have to come through him, first.

"OK, Jellybean," Jeb said soothingly. "We ain't gonna make you fight no monsters today. And remember, I got me a gun right in my bunk. If'n any monster comes, well, either me or Dean will shoot it for ya. Ain't nothin' to worry about. Now, why don't we take a look at the barn and see what needs fixin'? Your mama will be obliged if we could git it back the way it was. She's got enough to fret about."

"Come on, Florabel," Dean said as he gave her back a few rubs and a pat. "Ain't nothing going to happen to you while Jeb and I are watchin' out for you. I won't let any monster get to you, hear me?" he said. "Now why don't you and Jeb show me what happened here."

The little girl brightened and grabbed his hand. "I'll show you where I found you, Pally. It was just me that day. I thought you was a no account rail-rider," she giggled. She guided him past Penny's stall and into the open area of the barn. Dean could see the damage even in the pale light coming from the bank of small windows on the side of the barn. Beams had been split, hay bales had been thrown. The wall of a small side room had been shorn away and was lying in broken splinters.

"I picked up most of the gear and hay that got spilled, but the whole of the loft is in danger of collapsing. A couple of them columns ain't nothin' but flinders now, and they's another support-column that's fixin' to fall, see?" he pointed as they approached ground-zero where Dean first appeared. "I also stacked all the new wood that we found with you over in this corner. Might be able to make some use of it. Dunno how in the hell it all come here."

"Oh man," Dean said. "This is gonna take a lot of work to fix."

"That's a fact," Jeb agreed. "But I reckon ain't no man ever drowned in his own sweat. We'll git it done." He inspected the worst of the columns and scratched his head. "It don't make no sense, though," he said. "Storm damage is s'posed to come from outside-in, not inside-out. I surely do wish you could remember what happened that night. It'd make a tale I'd be mighty interested in hearing."

Dean put his hand on the splintered wood, and it suddenly felt like the ground gave way beneath him. He had only the vaguest sensation of falling before his surroundings melted and morphed into something else.

When his vision came back he was no longer in the barn. He was in some kind of unfinished building. It was dark and cold. Very cold. He looked up and saw himself and Slaid quietly standing face to face. He gasped as he watched himself wave his hand right through the farmhand's body as if it wasn't there. _That fuckin' h'rts, dude_, he heard himself say and watched as he clumsily rubbed the frost off his hand. The scene shifted perspective somewhat and he was now viewing it from a first-person's view-point; although, he still had no sense of ever having experienced the scene before. Just the same, the searing throbs now radiating from his shoulder felt extremely real. He tensed and heard himself moan out in excruciating pain. Florabel was talking earnestly somewhere, but her voice was cut off as he was pitched back into the vision against his will. The confrontation continued to play itself out.

Slaid seemed to glow with an eerie, pale light, giving his image a near two-dimensional quality. He didn't look quite real, and yet the sense of danger and menace emanating from the apparition was palpable. Dean heard lumbering feet on boards coming from somewhere behind him. _In h're, S'mmy_, he turned and shouted, then continued his staring contest with Slaid. 'Sammy is here!' Dean tried desperately to turn again and face Sam, to reach out to him, but he wasn't in control of the action. It was like being a passenger in someone else's body. 'I wonder if this is what being possessed feels like?' His question made no sense to him, and the entire thought was lost in his wild attempts to get to Sam. His body remained facing Slaid, though, no matter how hard he tried to turn. The image of monster-Slaid winked bewilderingly in and out of existence a few times. _Wha're you lookin' at?_ Dean said with a lone eyebrow raised at the thing Slaid had become. A wicked smile tickled the corners of Slaid's lips as the farm-hand raised his hands and played with strands of electricity that yo-yo'ed back and forth between his hands.

_It's been a long time, Ördög fighter_, Slaid said as he released a monstrous growl.

_Dean, down!_ he heard a voice behind him shout out, and as compelled as he was to obey, his shaking body did not respond quickly enough.

With a flick of Slaid's hand, Dean went sailing back toward the voice behind him. He felt a sickening crack of pain explode through his left side as he slammed into something hard behind him.

Dean gripped his shoulder in agony and crumpled in on himself like hot cellophane. "You's OK, Pally," he heard a familiar voice in the distance. Exhausted from the pain and fear, he sought the voice out, wanting nothing more than to get away from this vision. "Ain't nothing gonna gitcha here." He felt a small, warm hand on his cheek and he leaned into it, anchoring himself as the voice led him back. "Me an' Jeb, we's right here with you. Don't you fret, now. Open your eyes, Pally."

Dean battled his eyelids, finally opening them and slowly focusing on Florabel. This world wasn't where he thought he belonged, but it was becoming more familiar and comforting than his visions. He clawed at his surroundings like a flailing grapple hook, trying to find something solid and assuring to latch onto. The little girl in front of him was the one thing he could truly get a purchase on, since all his attempts to get a bid on Sam had failed. He reached out and touched her sunny braid. The phantom pain in his shoulder dissipated and his breathing slowly returned to normal. He looked from Florabel to Jeb feeling relieved to be back. "Wha' h'ppned?" he grogged out.

"You had a bad spell, Pally. Did you see Sam agin?" the little girl asked as she patted his chest.

He hissed out at the memory of the vision and closed his eyes again. Slaid. He'd seen him—or something that looked like him. It looked like a… "Yes…well, no," he said. "I think Sam was there somewhere, but I couldn't get to him. I saw something else, though," he said hesitantly.

"What didja see?" Florabel asked. Dean opened his eyes and looked around in a panic, raising himself on shaky elbows.

"It's OK, son, you's safe. It weren't real. You was here with us the whole time," Jeb said as he helped the younger man to sit up.

"What was it, Pally?"

Dean rubbed his head in confusion. "I think I saw a monster."

**O**

_March 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The house was dormant and long asleep when Slaid slipped down the ladder into the root cellar. The Livingstons had made a big fuss about Dean that day, taking special care of their guest who'd, again, fainted in the barn like a woman. Slaid had been forced to get his own supper that night, since Emma had spent all afternoon making sure Dean was comfortable and getting his proper rest. The thought of her touching the Devil-fighter made him sick to his stomach. And of course, Florabel had flounced around the entire day, taking charge where a child shouldn't, telling him to _Git yer own supper, now. Mama and me's got work to do! Pally ain't feelin' good today._ The child should be taking orders from _him_, doing what _he_ told her to do—not the other way around. More than that, he wanted her to _want_ to do what he told her to.

He'd been patient and obedient. He'd put up with their orders, suffered how they flaunted their bodies around him, and endured how they drove him mad with the need to possess them. They deserved to be punished and tamed to his liking. The Hala was supposed to have ensured his ability to command. He'd done everything that had been expected of him to earn the wind-demon's grace. Now it was the Hala's turn. If this didn't work, he'd have to find another tactic to force the women to obey him. At least he'd try this offering, hoping that it would please the Hala better than the jackrabbits ever had.

The man was already rock-hard with anticipation. Candles were lit and herbs smoldering in the bowls. Everything but the offering was on the altar. Once his clothes had been removed, Slaid bent down and lifted his clucking gift. He set the bird on the altar, petting it lovingly.

"What a beautiful thing," he cooed to it. "Such a pretty blood red." He held it close to his chest, tucking it under his own wing and gently stroking its head. "Florabel loves you so," he said as he gripped its neck and twisted it furiously. The final plaintive squawk sent blood coursing to his groin. Before he could touch himself, however, the lantern flickered and brightened suddenly. A wind ripped through the small enclosed cellar, causing Slaid to drop the dead chicken back onto the altar in surprise. A surge of energy whipped through him, and he stood dumbfounded, staring at his hands as tendrils of electric light riffled across his skin. Slaid felt heady with the power that pulsed within him.

The Hala had finally accepted an offering.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	9. Worried Man Blues

_**A/N: Have you hugged your beta today? My gratitude to Numpty, NongPradu and Beckydaspatz is boundless. They have made this experience and this story so much better! Thanks!**_

_**A/N: The final scene of this chapter has been edited to stay within the "T" rating. The unedited version can be read on LiveJournal (address is in my profile). See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers.**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 9: Worried Man Blues**

**O**

_March 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

His hand slithered under his pillow, groping for something it did not find. Cracking a crusty eyelid, he blearily searched the empty space, wondering what it was that his sleepy subconscious expected to be there. He coughed up some mud and worked the crunchy dust out of his eyes and nose, giving both the pillow and the nothing under it another once-over. He concentrated as hard as he could, willing the memory to surface. But it didn't.

"C'mon, c'mon!" he urged himself. The more fully awake and aware he grew, however, the less likely his chances became of remembering. When he was certain that they'd evaporated altogether and that the moment was lost, he slammed the pillow down angrily. He pivoted and leaned against the headboard, stewing. He didn't know what he'd been looking for under there. Something. Something important. He heaved a discouraged sigh and drew his legs up, hugging them with one hand while he twisted a tuft of his growing bangs with the other. He rocked back and forth slightly. The motion only served to remind him of the constant push and pull between his unreachable past and his confusing present. Clenching his jaw, he ground away at the gritty dust, a constant nuisance between his teeth, while he fumed.

Slaid. The presence of Slaid in his vision made absolutely no sense to him. He'd not seen anyone from the present in one of his wonky memories until now. Emma had said she'd never seen Dean before he showed up in the barn. But Slaid obviously had. Or had he? The farm-hand had frightened Florabel, and he certainly annoyed the hell out of Dean. Had Dean just plunked him into the past, assigning him the role of villain in order to fill in some gap or apparent blank in his past—or, despite Slaid's improbable appearance, had he actually been lurking in that shell of a building, and had Dean and Sam been attacked by him? Were his visions entirely meaningless, nothing more than a symptom of a brain broken by wound and fever—or were his past and present bound together by Slaid, and was the farm-hand a danger to the people in both worlds?

"Fuck," he growled as he fidgeted with his hair and ran his fingers over his head, trying to work out answers to his questions or, hell, to even _one_ of his questions. Leaning against the headboard and stretching slightly, his spine cracked and popped like twisted bubble-wrap. He wondered if dust had somehow wormed its way into his joints and was now chafing him from within. Dean pressed the palm of his hand against his jaw and popped it, then his fingers. Like his joints, the past and present were grinding past each other like tectonic plates with only dust as lubricant. The friction between the two was building, threatening to crush him. It was like being trapped between mortar and pestle, and the constant battle was wearing him down.

There was no way to answer his questions, and no amount of yanking at his hair or cracking his knuckles was going to change that. Despite the very real possibility that his episodes were nothing more than the result of some freakish neurological storm caused by fever, his instincts, again, were reiterating that _something_ was off, that at least part of his perceptions were legitimate. And regardless of his confusion and lack of certainty, he wasn't going to expose Florabel and Emma to any risk if there was even the slightest chance that Slaid was more dangerous than they realized.

He kicked the covers off his legs and bolted out of bed, dressing quickly, shivering the entire time. Looking down as he was buttoning up his union suit, he noticed the dark gunshot scar. It was now just a purplish-red divot, and he had to wonder if Slaid had anything to do with that as well. Dean wouldn't put it past him.

The kitchen was empty. He heard Emma singing to herself in another room. Dean had come to recognize this as one of her morning rituals while she dusted, and the longer he stayed in the house, the more comforting and familiar her sultry alto became. Emma's soft, lilting voice brought a soothing clarity to him. _Ida! Sweet as apple cider. Sweeter than all I know, come out! In the silv'ry moonlight…_ It was another tether, albeit a pleasant one, tugging at him. He felt the desire to go and help her fill the morning dust-buckets, to simply enjoy her company and share her space as they worked to control the dust for another day. The more pressing issue pulled him away, however. Without saying a word, he ducked out of the backdoor and into some of the worst winds he'd experienced yet.

The wild gusts were hissing and spitting brown dust everywhere. He had to keep twisting and turning away from it to avoid getting a face-full of stinging grit. Wincing his eyes shut, he tucked his head into his bullet wound, trying to take a breath that wasn't choked with dust. Once he recovered enough to turn back he literally had to look through his balled up hands, binocular style, in order to keep the dust away from his lids. There were three separate dust-devils twisting themselves into knots between the house and the barn. Visibility was less than a few hundred feet away, the landscape melting into a blank canvas of brown beyond that. He coughed up some dirty phlegm and jogged as quickly as he could to the bunkhouse.

Knocking brought no answer. He shielded his eyes again and rubbed the film of dust off the window in order to look through it. He could see two rows of cots against the walls, but no one was inside. He furtively looked around to see if anyone was nearby and opened the door. He entered, dust swirling around him like blowing snow in a blizzard. He coughed again and tried to rub the dust out of his watering eyes before he ventured further into the room.

He saw the two inhabited bunks at the far end and made his way over. The nightstand of one of the bunks had a framed picture of a much younger Jeb and a dowdy woman professionally posed in their wedding attire. Dean looked at the photo for a moment and then set it down. He picked up another frame on the stand. This one was a portrait of a young man in a WWI soldier's uniform. The boy shared Jeb's quirked eyebrow. Jeb never mentioned having a son, and Dean had to wonder exactly how heavy the millstone of grief that the old man carried was. It astounded him how any of the people he'd met could still laugh and smile the way they did, day after day, in the face of such stupefying, environmental immiseration. He set the photo back down carefully, almost reverently, and turned to Slaid's bunk.

It was quite sparse and, surprisingly, the bed was meticulously made with near military precision. There wasn't anything on the nightstand beyond a small oil lamp, a deck of cards, and an old newspaper. He opened the top drawer, which was just as sparse—a comb, an old, flattened toothbrush, and a small shaving kit. Dean snorted at that, since the farmhand rarely seemed to use any of those items. There were a few marbles rolling about the drawer. Dean picked them up and held them against his palm, wondering if they were Florabel's or not. The idea that Slaid had possibly taken something from her infuriated him, but he set them back in the drawer just the same. For now, he had to leave everything as it was. No sense in jumping in the deep-end over three marbles. There wasn't anything else beyond those meager items. He opened the second drawer to find a few smartly folded articles of clothing, an extra union suit, some socks and two shirts.

"Crap," Dean sighed. He quickly moved down the rows of cots and nightstands, opening drawers just to make sure they were all empty. Other than an inch of dust in each, they were. The only thing remotely out of the ordinary was a window-box with some plants growing in it. Dean stared at it dumbly trying to figure out why two bachelors would be tending houseplants. He looked over the various growing greens and pinched their leaves without really knowing why. He immediately named each of the plants as he smelled the rub on his fingers, Wolfsbane and Lobelia, with Bindweed winding up the window-frame, entangling itself in the empty curtain rod. He wondered if Emma had planted the box to put her touch on the bunkhouse, but somehow he just didn't think so. He studied the rest of the room. It was sparse and unadorned. Perhaps he had it all wrong. Then again, he didn't really even know what he was looking for. What types of items would a monster keep in his drawers? Would it plant flowers in a window-box? Dean was pondering what types of items monsters might keep when he heard Florabel yelling shrilly from the barn, and he was immediately out the door and running through the yard, leaving plumes of rising dust in his wake.

He could see the little girl fighting the wind as another dust-devil whirled through the yard. She was distressed and calling for something, but he couldn't make it out for the wind in his ears.

"Florabel! What is it?" he yelled as he ran up. He had to put up his hand to shield his eyes from the blowing earth, making it hard to even see her expression.

"I cain't find Molly! She ain't in her yard, Pally," she wailed. "She ain't with the rest of her sisters in the coop. I got to find her! I don't know where she could'a run off to. The gate was closed." The little girl started running off while calling the bird's name. Dean caught up with her in a few steps.

"Hang on, Florabel," he said. He thought a moment, scooped her up and ran to the barn. Once inside he set her down. "Stay here a moment. Let me go check. I don't want you out in that wind. Stay with Penny."

"But Pally…!" she protested.

"No buts…you mind me, now," he said, taking a page from Emma's book. It worked. The little girl stopped cold and slumped in shame. Dean bent down and kissed the top of her head. "I just want you safe. I'll be right back. I promise." He ran out of the barn and toward the chicken-coop. His first attempt to open the gate gave him a powerful shock from the static electricity built up in the metal latch. He looked down the line of fencing and could see blue sparks running in waves through the thin chicken-wiring.

"Jesus," he snarled as he pulled his shirt down over his hand and opened the gate. The birds were jumbled together in their pen, trying to stay upright in the wind. He walked through the huddled group, picking each one up and checking to be sure. Molly wasn't there. He closed the gate behind him, distinctly remembering doing the same yesterday when he'd had Florabel in his arms. Slaid had remained behind when the three of them had gone to inspect the barn. Suspicion started to percolate, his brain making the easy leaps to arrive at the most likely culprit. Dean felt bile burning in him. Nevertheless, he ran behind the barn, looking to see if, perhaps, the bird had somehow escaped and had wandered back there. There was nothing there, just wind pitching the dust against the planking of the barn. He wasn't surprised. He ran back inside the barn to find Florabel whimpering as she stroked Penny's nose, finding what solace she could in the cow's huge, liquid eyes. Penny thoughtfully munched her cud in sympathy.

"Did you find her, Pally?" she asked, her tear-streaked face alive with hope. He shook his head and bent down to her. The little girl's dusty face crumbled and she started to cry brokenly.

"Come on, Florabel, we have to go back to the house. It's too windy out here. I'll keep looking, but you need to go back to the house."

The little girl fell into his arms and sobbed. "I don't know how she could'a gotten out, Pally. It don't make no sense. She would never leave me for no reason. We was best friends."

Dean didn't doubt that was true. And he was pretty sure that even if the gate had been left open that Molly wouldn't have been the only chicken to wander out. He tried to tamp down the fury that was rising. "I know you were," he said. "Let's go to the house and see if Old Jeb is there. Maybe he saw her, and if not, we can get him to help me look, at least." He quickly pulled off his over-shirt and picked the child up. Gently covering her nose and mouth with his shirt, he jogged toward the house. By the time they arrived in the kitchen, they were both thickly coated in gray-brown dust and coughing hoarsely. Dean set Florabel down and noticed Slaid and Jeb eating a breakfast of eggs and corn mush.

"My God!" Emma said when she saw them coated in dust. Florabel's face was smeared with muddy tears. "Don't be going back out today. The wind is just that bad. It could turn into a blizzard if'n it keeps up."

Dean barely heard her. He strode over to Slaid and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and overalls, whirling him around and slamming him brutally against the wall.

"Did you do it?" Dean heaved out, searching the farm-hand's face with lethal eyes. Both Emma and Jeb sprung forward and immediately worked to separate the two. Dean shrugged them off. "Did you do it?" he repeated. A blasting gust of wind shook the house. Slaid gripped Dean's forearms with clammy hands and struggled to break free. Dean could smell the sharp, pungent tang of Slaid's sweat as the two silently held each other.

"Whoa there, son!" Jeb said as if Dean were a spooked horse he was trying to calm. He gently tried to pry Dean's grip off of Slaid. "What's going on, here?"

"Dean, let him go," Emma joined in, trying to get between the two men.

Dean didn't make a move. He strengthened his hold on Slaid. "Molly's gone. You were right there yesterday when we left. I know I shut the gate. What did you do with her?" Dean accused.

Slaid watched as Emma and Jeb worked to pull Dean off of him and curled his lip in amusement as Dean struggled against them. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said smoothly. "Git your hands off me, _Ördög_-fighter," he said. He looked at Emma. "Git him off me. You see how dangerous he is, now, ya?"

"Dean, let him go, now. Come on," she said.

"Come on, Dean." Jeb turned his back on Slaid and spoke softly in Dean's ear as he laid a hand on his shoulder. "It ain't so smart to corner something meaner'n you, son. Y'don't want to git Slaid riled up, now. Safest to just keep your distance until you know for sure he done something you can prove to Emma." Jeb patted Dean kindly and addressed everyone. "Let's just all calm down. Life is short 'n full-o-blisters. Ain't no call to make it worse. C'mon son, let's let this ol' boy go, now." He casually patted Dean's shoulder. "C'mon Dean." Dean could hear Florabel softly whimpering across the room. He heaved a guttural, sighing growl, releasing Slaid with a final shove as he pushed himself off of the grinning farm-hand.

Slaid coughed and smoothed his overalls. "I don't know what happened to the pretty bird," he said. "But instead of blaming people who done nothing wrong, I, at least, will help find her," he said with a smug shrug. "Florabel, come here, child. I'll help you search for her," he said, looking at Dean with a triumphant gleam in his eye, as though he were about to show him a neat new trick he learned. The girl stared blankly at him, frightened and uncertain. "Child," he said again as he turned from Dean to Florabel. "Come here," he commanded. The little girl ran to her mother and hid behind her.

"No," she said. "I ain't goin' outside. Mama says it's too windy," she said, making an excuse. Slaid looked at both women incredulously, as though he'd expected a much different response. His hands balled into fists as he stood there gaping. Dean began moving in again but was stopped by Jeb. Slaid's shoulders dropped just a little, but he recovered his bravado.

"I'll just go look for her myself, then. You can thank me when I bring her home safe," he said and slammed the door behind him as he left. Everyone stood still not knowing quite what to do next. The only sound was dust grains spraying against the windows and Florabel's hitching snuffles as she tried to fight back her tears.

"Florabel, you and Jeb eat your breakfast," Emma said, pulling her daughter gently out from behind her. "Dean, can I have a word with you in private?"

"Mama, don't you tell Pally to go." Florabel's face looked shattered.

Emma guided her daughter to the table. "Ain't no one goin' nowhere, child. Stop being dramatic. I just want to have a word. Now, you sit there and mind me. I mean it, Florabel."

"But Mama!" Florabel started to shout, until a cough caught her throat. Jeb patted her back and nodded toward Emma, indicating that he had the child.

"It's OK, Miss Flibbertigibbet," he said. "You'n me is gonna sit and eat our breakfast." As soon as the girl made a motion to protest, he held up his hand. "Now, Florabel you know just as plain as me that kickin' up your heels ain't gonna git you nowheres unless you's a mule. Now let's eat, doll. Let the grownups talk." He nodded again towards Emma giving her the all-clear to proceed.

Emma nodded back and then looked at Dean. She led him through the front room and out onto the somewhat sheltered veranda. The wind was still intense, though, and Emma's work dress wrapped itself around her thin body tightly, flapping loudly like a wind-torn flag around a pole. "You want to explain to me what just happened, Mr. Hetfield?" she asked curtly.

Dean sighed. "Molly's gone. Slaid was the last one at the chicken-coop yesterday," he fumbled. As he spoke the words, he realized that the accusation sounded flimsy at best. "I know I shut the gate, Emma. And even if I didn't—even if I had left the gate open—more'n just Molly would have gotten out. Slaid took her."

Emma put her hand up to shield her eyes. Dean moved over, placing himself between Emma and the wind to help shield her better. "Why would Slaid take Molly?" she asked. "It don't make no sense, Dean. You cain't be accusin' him of things just because you don't like him," she scolded.

Dean ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. "Slaid ain't what you think," he said. "I know it all sounds crazy, but I think I know more about Slaid than you do."

Emma looked at him kindly, but she was just as exasperated. "What?" she asked. "What do you know about Slaid?"

"Well, for one that he's a raging asshat," Dean belted out.

Emma faltered a moment, started to say something, then stopped—gave Dean a confused look and then faltered again, unsure what she'd just heard and whether it was a cuss word or not. "Mind your language, Mr. Hetfield," she said finally without confidence. She was still trying to work the word out in her head.

Dean looked down at her and sighed. "Emma, I owe my life to both you and Florabel. I'd never do anything to hurt either of you, you know that, right?"

"Of course I do," she said honestly.

"You're going to think I'm sillier than Florabel with ideas about fairies in the chicken-coop, but sometimes I see what I think are memories during those spells that I get. And I saw Slaid in one of them," he admitted.

Emma's demeanor softened and she guided him over to the porch swing and sat down with him. "What did you see, Dean?" she asked.

He shook his head. "It was all jumbled. I don't know for certain. I was in a large, unfinished building, and he was there."

Emma thought a moment. "We ain't had any new buildings put up around here in a long time. Ain't no money to build with. Are you sure it was Slaid you seen?"

Dean deflated. He knew if he told her everything she wouldn't believe him. He wasn't sure he believed it himself. He sighed heavily. "I don't know," he said. "I just don't know," he repeated with his head in his hands. "I saw him do things that don't make sense."

"Dean," Emma said almost tenderly, "You was so bad off when we found you. There ain't no tellin' what happened that night, but Slaid—he's been with us the whole while. Every day. Eatin' breakfast and just bein' his ungrateful, cantankerous self," she grinned. "He ain't been to another town where they's building things. The most he done is go to town to play cards. He ain't been gone for more'n a few hours at a time. I ain't tryin' to shut you off. I'm just tryin' to be realistic. What did you see him do?"

The young man shook his head and shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said. "You're probably right. It was probably just dreams I saw," he sighed, his back twitching as he leaned his elbows on his knees and looked at the dusty wooden floor beneath him. "Nothin' is making any sense. I don't know who I am. I don't know how I came here. I don't know shit," he said. Emma flinched but didn't chide him. He looked so forlorn and lost. She actually reached out and gently rubbed his back.

"It's OK, Dean. I cain't imagine how hard this is for you. I'm sorry we couldn't git your fever under control quicker. Maybe none of this'd be happenin' to you now if'n you hadn't suffered so much. Your brain got too hot. I'm sorry. I cain't tell you how sorry, because just like you'd never do me no harm, I'd never do you none, neither. And I feel bad that we couldn't help you better when you needed it," she said sadly.

"Ain't your fault," he said. "I'd be dead if you hadn't helped me in the first place." He looked at her and gave a rueful smile. "Maybe what I saw was just a dream. I don't know. It could be that whoever hurt me or tried to kill me looked like Slaid, or maybe I just imagined the whole thing and saw him because I don't like him. I don't trust him. Maybe…" he began and then slumped even further. "Maybe Sam isn't even a real person." He was surprised to feel tears prick behind his eyes at that. The thought of Sam being a phantom of his own mind was heartbreaking. The dimpled boy was the one person beyond Emma and Florabel that truly meant something to him, and he'd believed, or fooled himself into believing, that Sam was the most important thing in his past. But if he could slip Slaid into a dream, maybe none of his dreams meant anything beyond his fractured mind playing tricks on him. No. No way. Dean bent forward and pinched some dust from the ground and rubbed it between his fingers. It wasn't just wish-fulfillment. Dean knew that Sam was real just as he knew that he, himself, was real. The knowledge was simply that fundamental.

Emma gently put her arm around him and spoke in his ear. "Well, me'n Florabel is real. We's here, and we care about you, Dean. Even Old Jeb thinks the world of you. I know it don't mean much when your whole life has been pulled away, but we ain't gonna turn our backs on you. You hear me?"

Dean looked out at the wind-raped land before him. He could only see to the end of the yard before the landscape melted into a jaundiced-colored haze. He sighed and nodded. "Molly's still missing, though. That ain't my imagination, Em. Something or someone took her from a closed pen."

"I hear you, Dean," she admitted. "I don't know how Molly got out. It ain't even the first chicken we lost without no seeming reason. I think we lost one right about the time you come here. Though, at the time, there was a whole lot more to worry about than one lost chicken, and it certainly hadn't been one that Florabel had been fond of. But that don't mean that Slaid done it."

"Don't mean that he didn't, either," Dean contended.

"True enough, but we'll make good an' sure there ain't no breaks or gaps in the chicken-wire before we go accusin' anyone," she smiled. "I know you's a good man, Dean. I'm grateful that you care enough about Florabel 'n me to try protect us like that. I do. But until I know for sure Slaid done it, I cain't just toss him out or even scold him. It wouldn't be right. I cain't imagine what Slaid would want with poor Molly anyhow. It ain't like he can cook a lick, no how," she giggled and nudged Dean, trying to knock loose some of the heavier chunks of the load he was obviously carrying.

Dean tried to take it all in. He'd found nothing incriminating in Slaid's bunk. He had only his strange visions to go on, and there just was no telling how reliable they were. He knew precious little for certain. His gut told him that something wasn't right, but that wasn't going to convince anyone else. It was barely convincing himself at this point. "I'm sorry I lost my temper with Slaid," he said. He returned her playful nudge and gave her a cheeky smile. "I still think he's an asshat, though," he said. She nodded her agreement. He sighed and drew lines in the dust with his finger. "And I don't think he has your or Florabel's best interest in mind." He stopped playing in the dust and leaned back looking Emma in the eyes. "You need to watch out for him, Emma. No matter what I saw in my dream that is or ain't real, you have to promise me that you'll stay clear of him."

The woman nodded in gentle agreement. "You too, Dean. Just keep your distance from him and things is going to be fine. You'll see." She got up and reached out her hand to help him up. "Come on, Dean. Let's git back in and have some breakfast. This land is whittling you down too far," she said with a smile. "We's gonna have to feed you a little better."

Dean took her hand and rose rather forlornly. "OK," he agreed.

"Then once we's done eatin' I'm gonna douse both you and Florabel with skunk oil and turpentine so's neither one of you catch pneumonia," she said with a wicked grin.

"Ugh," he said, not liking the treatment any more than Florabel did. "That's just plain mean spirited," he said. Emma snickered as she opened the door and went inside.

She turned back when Dean hesitated. "You coming, Dean?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'll be along in a minute."

She nodded, sympathetically. "Don't stay out too long, now. Florabel will never forgive me if'n I let you run off now." She shut the screen door quietly and left him alone.

Dean rested his hands on the railing of the porch and looked out on the vacant land. The wind was coming from the west now, hitting the house from behind. Great sheets of dust were flying past and away, the wind stealing the earth, grain by grain. Dean felt as if he, himself, was being slowly stripped naked, endlessly skinned and scraped by both his past and his present. Both were pulling equally as strong. Emma and Florabel, _especially Florabel_, pulled him in one direction. Hell, even Jeb had his hand twisted around that same rope. On the other side was Dean's shadowed past and Sam, _always Sam_, pulling him in the other direction. Without the people, neither world looked particularly enticing, though. In fact, both worlds appeared hopelessly bleak.

Dean's present world was experiencing some kind of outright, environmental catastrophe, a land shriveled and dried beyond all hope, so much so that the very earth was flying away, looking for better opportunity elsewhere. Yet there were people in this dead tundra that Dean cared about, people that he could completely bond with if it weren't for the inner voice that constantly reminded him of other lands and other people that he intuitively felt needed him more. His past. On that side was darkness and fear. A place where nightmares were real and looking under your bed was necessary for survival, not merely a childhood indulgence. Despite the grim darkness of that world, Dean believed that his purpose was there—that he had an important and unfinished job to do. Lives depended upon it. On him. Somehow. No matter how bizarre Slaid's appearance in his past had been, whether it was transference or just plain fantasy, Dean knew that Sam, at least, was real. It was his one immutable truth. Sam was a real person, somewhere. Perhaps he was looking for Dean, maybe he even felt as lost and as _halved_ as Dean. It could be. It was a nice thought in a way. But Dean still felt as though he was being pulled taut by both sides, and he honestly didn't know which side would finally, irrevocably pull him away. He could almost hear the grinding of those two plates as they fretted against one another, each striving for dominance over the other.

He watched the wind steal more earth out from under the farm, and he gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white.

**O**

_February 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Dean felt a shocking blast of agony shoot through him, and he instinctively folded into a protective fetal position. He could feel Sam tugging at him. The young hunter was yelling frantically, but Dean couldn't make out any words, yet. He felt himself being raised to his feet.

"Dean, move!" were the first words that Dean could comprehend. "Hold onto this." Sam said, as he pushed him into the studding. Dean listlessly reached his right arm through the beams and grabbed one. He opened his eyes and looked around.

Sam was making a dash for the salt gun he'd dropped when Dean crashed into him. The juddering specter was still approaching, bearing down on Dean.

"Not much of a change in you, Devil-fighter," he said as he raised his hand toward Dean. "Years have been good, ya?" With that, the spirit rose up and began to chant.

"_Én itt beidéz, Hala. A szél az Ördög!" _

Just as he finished the incantation, his image lurched to the side and disintegrated into smoky dust. Sam pulled out another shotgun shell from his pocket and replaced it, slamming the gun shut again.

"Who the hell is this guy?" Sam asked Dean. "Do you two know each other?"

"Fuck, not that I know of, S'mmy. I n'vr seen his ugly ass before. Never been to this ugly ass town before," Dean said, trying to hold his balance as a powerful gust of wind hit him. "Wh'th'fuck?" he groused as he tried to get a firmer grip on the studding.

Sam grabbed his brother by the collar of his shirt. "Come on, man. We have to get you out of here."

"But I dropped my gun, Sammy. Can't leave it behind," he said, aggrieved.

Sam continued to keep him moving. "We'll get it in the morning. Not now. Move, Dean, I mean it, or I'll carry your ass out."

"Awright, geez, y'don' have t'be such a bitch, Bitch," he snickered and wobbled in Sam's grip. "Bitch, bitch, bitch," he giggled. His grin fell and he put his arm to his shoulder and hissed. "Don't pull my arm so much, S'mmy. It h'rts," he said, his voice sloppy with fever and pain. He took a quivering breath. "Don' feel s'good. I'mma be sick, soon," he warned.

"Not here. You can puke your brains out, just as soon as we get back to the Impala," Sam said as he continued guiding Dean toward the doorway.

Dean let out a steaming blast of air. "Pfft, S'mmy, not gonna soil my baby. No fuckin' way, dude!"

"Jesus," Sam said. He suddenly stopped and pulled against Dean's collar, making the elder hunter lose his balance as his forward momentum was disrupted.

"Make up yer mind, S'mmy," Dean scolded, and turned to give his brother the best version of a bitchface he could muster, but Sam's incredulous face drew his attention to where he was staring.

There was a black, spinning whirlwind between them and the door. Jagged blue sparks of energy fingered out towards them as it began to head their way. The wind began to roar and Dean could hear the splinter of wood as it passed by an unfinished wall. Sam pulled Dean away roughly, causing him to cry out in pain.

"We can't get out that way," Sam yelled above the roar, but the dark cyclone had moved in far enough that it was also blocking the hallway. More wood shore off the side of the building as Sam tried to maneuver them around, drawing the thing out so that they could eventually work their way around to the door. A blast of frigid wind from behind stopped the attempt, however. The ghost was back, and with a snarl it blasted the brothers into another wall. Sam's gun was ripped away by the impact and slid along the ground, close by where the apparition watched them with gimlet eyes.

Dean was near insensible on the ground, unable to think beyond the molten agony that was coursing through his arm like burning jet fuel. Sam grabbed the elder hunter's right arm and pulled until he was close enough to grab around his waist, tugging the wounded man until Dean was panting against him. The spirit approached. It turned a splayed hand out toward the dark, twisting storm and stopped its advance. Turning back, the spirit focused on Dean as he lay there half conscious.

"They belonged to me, _Ördög_-fighter," it said. "You stole them, and not even Hala could git them away from you."

Dean kicked out with his foot, the only weapon he had, and stifled a scream of pain. "Fuck you," he said sharply. "I don't know what you're talking about, douchebag. You have me confused with someone else."

The specter laughed. "No. Same face, same big man. Big circus man. Strong again, ya? Devil-fighter, I make no mistake."

"Well, you're just all sorts of fuckin' nuts, then," Dean said as he tried to get his panting under control. He held onto the studding while Sam eased himself out from behind him. Sam gripped his back a moment, silently signaling him to keep the spirit busy while he tried to retrieve the gun.

The spirit stopped smirking and screamed out. "Hala promised! Their love was mine, not yours!"

Dean laughed. "You think I stole your girl? Is that what this is about? Ah hell, dude, it wouldn't be the first time. Get in line, buddy. I'm just that fuckin' good," he gave a smirk that ended in a grimace of pain as he held his shoulder. He looked to see how close Sam was to the gun, but that only drew the ghost's attention to the young hunter. With a flick of the spirit's wrist, the gun shot away and crashed into a wall.

"Enough," it said as the cyclone started to advance. "Time to pay, Dean."

**O**

_March 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

A puff of dust followed Slaid down into the root cellar. He paced the floor several times, running his hands through his hair as he spat and gurgled out his frustration and anger. A windy day? _That_ was his reward for his offering? Punching the wall, he wheeled around, slamming into the altar. He laid his hands on the corners, shaking and rattling it until red chicken down started floating in the air and the table nearly tipped over. Another bellowing roar of fury flew out of his mouth. Neither of those bitches had bowed to him. He couldn't even get the little one to touch him, let alone do his bidding or satisfy his needs. Some of the wind-demon's power had entered him; he could feel the energy within him. The Hala had responded to the sacrifice. Why had the women not become his? Looking at his fingers, he could see the crackling blue threads of energy pulsing there. It hadn't been enough. Molly had been too small, too meager. Like the women, the bird had wound up being nothing but a huge tease. He'd have to find a bigger offering.

Dirty tears streaked brown down his face, making him look like a twisted harlequin in the pus-colored lamplight, seething out his bitter outrage, gasping out his loathing for the man who'd come between him and his property. He despised the devil-fighter that his women were clearly falling for. He prayed to the Hala to give him strength. With enough strength he would be able to bring the demon a suitable offering—the one thing the women cared for above all others. If he could offer that up, the Hala would certainly supply him with the power to own the women. He'd just have to wait for the right opportunity.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	10. Black Wind Blowing

_**A/N: Thank you to Beckydaspatz, NongPradu and Numpty for being such amazing betas. The amount of care and time they have spent on this story is mind-boggling. Some of the later chapters are still actively being beta'd, and their work and dedication continues to humble me. For instance, Numpty became so in tune with the voices of the OC's that she would actually correct me when I wrote them OOC! Please see Chapter 1 for full disclaimers.**_

_**A/N: This chapter has been very slightly edited (I've stricken merely two sentences from the scene in the root cellar) from its original in order to remain within the "T" rating. The full version can be read on LiveJournal (address is in my profile). That said, please, please be aware that with or without editing, this chapter deals with adult themes that could be very upsetting to readers regardless of age. **_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 10: Black Wind Blowing**

**O**

_April 12, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"You're fine, Pally," Florabel said, but Dean merely scoffed incredulously. "Aw, Pally, C'mon. Don't be that a-way. You'll git it. It's easy. Just allemande left, promenade with Mama around the square once, and _then_ do-si-do." The little girl instructed her cranky student as patiently as she could. She wobbled a little as she stood on the cushioned chair, a poof of dust rising around her ankles with every adjustment of her balance. She paid no heed to that, though. Engrossed in her role of Square-dance Caller, she was determined that Dean would get a few more practices in before the big barn-dance at the Crawfords' the following night. Sadly, Dean's lack of passion for square-dancing was evident. How could he not love it?

"Ugh," Dean moaned with humiliated self-consciousness. "This is so lame. I'm no good at this."

Emma couldn't help but chuckle just a little as she corrected his grip on her. He was positioning her as if he were about to promenade. She tapped his hand and shooed it away from her back and motioned for him to grab from the front. "You're doing fine, Dean. It ain't easy at first." She tried to encourage him, but he wasn't buying it.

"I'm going to make a fool out of myself," he fussed. Ever since the announcement that the Spring barn dance was going to be held despite the fact that there was no planting to celebrate, Florabel had been out of her mind with anticipation. She'd taken it upon herself to make sure Dean was Emma's dance partner at the event, so square-dance lessons had been ongoing for the past week. Not only were they attending the dance on Saturday night, but Emma had finally relented, agreeing to let Florabel go to the jackrabbit drive the same afternoon. Since the drive was going to be the precursor to the dance, they were expecting a huge turn-out. To top everything off, Florabel's eighth birthday was the day following the dance, Sunday, April 14th. Added all together, you had a child who'd been nearly bouncing off the walls for the past two weeks with excitement. It was going to be a big weekend, and Dean didn't want to let the little girl down. Just the same, however, square-dancing sucked balls.

In the weeks following Molly's disappearance and Dean's run-in with Slaid, the two men had barely seen one another. Emma had worked to ensure that they rarely came in contact, scheduling meals to avoid any possible confrontations. Dean was an early riser, so he'd have his breakfast and would be out working on the barn with Florabel and Jeb before Slaid ever rose from his cot. Even Emma would often times wander out and lend a hand or just sit with Florabel and watch the men work as they all chatted together. They'd commandeered most of the necessary materials from Jeb's old barn, having borrowed a truck from the Haffner's and moved as much wood as they could one afternoon a few weeks prior. What the bankers didn't know, or didn't see them take, wouldn't hurt them. For several weeks they built the barn back up, replacing the loft's support beams and rebuilding the walls of the tack-room that had been ripped away. Dean didn't have any time to fight with Slaid. He still disliked the farm-hand intensely, but there were always more pressing issues to tend to. The worst of which was the even nastier turn the weather had taken. Ever since the day Molly disappeared, the _blow season_ had lived up to its name, and there had been absolutely no respite from the raging dust.

Boise City had been menaced by constant winds of 40mph for days on end, gusts often reaching above 60mph. Daily dusters rolled through, causing their world to shrink to just the view of the barn and the endlessly cranking windmill. The static electricity generated by the blowing dust had literally fried every living thing. Emma's pitiful kitchen garden that she had planted in early March was nothing but rows of shriveled, blackened leaves, now. Everything was dead. There would be no garden that year. In the mornings they'd find that the shifting dust had often drifted, blocking either the back door or the barn door, often times both. One day it took two hours for Dean and Jeb to dig their way through a nine-foot drift to get to the barn door, and by the time they were done that evening, they'd spent another two hours digging themselves back out. They'd nearly lost the rest of the chickens on one occasion when a drift encroached on their coop. It was a constant struggle of back-breaking work and vigilance to keep just their small space livable.

Dean had experienced no further visions that included Slaid, so he had assumed that the vision in the barn had been a fluke. While his episodes seemed to have diminished in frequency, they were usually very vivid and extremely intense when they did occur. In fact, the pull Dean felt for his unremembered life was so strong, so overwhelming, that he felt more torn now than he did when the visions had been a daily occurrence. The worst of these episodes happened when they'd gone to fetch wood from Jeb's old barn. Dean had thoughtlessly gotten behind the wheel of the truck, setting off the most intense vision of driving in a large, black car with Sam. When he'd finally come to, he'd nearly wept with frustration. He'd tried so hard to grab hold of Sam in that vision, but he couldn't get a purchase on anything solid. His hand had simply gone right through the boy as though either Dean or Sam was some kind of ghost. The emotions that he'd had for both the young man and the car he'd been driving had been so exquisitely vehement, he'd been left feeling a bereft homesickness that was hard to overcome. Despite the caring people around him, Dean had begun to withdraw somewhat, worrying Emma and Florabel considerably. His appetite had dipped and he'd dropped even more weight, and as little as there was for any of them to eat, Emma never ceased her attempts to get him to eat more.

This weekend, though, he was casting all of that frustration and worry aside. This weekend belonged to Florabel. She'd been ticking off the days for weeks now, building up an insane, dervish excitement that only children are free enough to truly indulge in. The weekend was finally upon them, and Dean was determined to make it special for her. So, if that meant participating in a completely goofy-ass dance that he wasn't any good at, he'd do it. But it was hard.

"OK, now, mind your square!" Florabel called out rhythmically, "And take your lady and allemande left! Come back and swing-swing-swing her boys! Promenade her home, and do-si-do!" All three of them stopped dead in their tracks. Dean had done it correctly. Florabel's face sparkled with pride. "You done it! Pally!" she gasped in awe. "You done that perfectly!"

Dean looked a little chagrinned and embarrassed. He gave a shrugging smirk. "This is so gay," he lamented with a good natured shake of his head.

Florabel stood back on her heels and folded her arms in triumph. "It really is, isn't it, Pally? I _knew_ you'd like it if you only gave it half a chance!" she agreed whole heartedly with his assessment. She smiled happily, giving herself a pat on the back. Her persistence had paid off; she'd finally won him over.

**O**

The dance this year was being hosted by the Crawford family, which thrilled Florabel, since she was going to be able to show Dean off to her friend, Lizzy. Jeb had volunteered to help build the temporary stage for the fiddlers and pickers, so Dean and Jeb were in the barn filling the finished loft with hay before the older man had to leave. Dean also had some business to attend to later, so they worked as fast as they could. Florabel, of course, was overseeing the job.

"Man that stink is still lingering even after all this time," Dean said, making a face. "Something crawled in here and died. You'd think it would finally just mummify and stop smelling so bad. You notice it, Jeb?"

"Every once in a while," Jeb nodded. "Mostly I just smell the skunk oil on you and Florabel, though," he smirked. "Hey, you asked!" he said with a grin.

"Whatever," Dean huffed with mock offense. They heaved another hay bale up the ropes and stacked it with the others. "If there haven't been crops in the past four years, where did all this hay come from?" Dean asked as they stacked.

"The government bought out the starvin' cattle. They came through a few months ago, just 'fore you showed up and paid a few dollars per head an' then took them all to the field 'n shot them right then an' there. Emma took them funds and bought enough hay for Penny to live on for a while. Before that, we was feeding her tumbleweeds."

"Jes—uh…" he began and noticed Florabel looking at him. "Je—Jehosephat!" he corrected.

"You can say that agin," Jeb agreed. The old man dusted off his overalls and looked around at the newly finished barn. "I daresay this barn is in much better shape now than it was before anything happened. You done good work, son," Jeb said as he clapped his hand on the younger man's shoulder fondly.

Florabel applauded the two as she sat perched atop a large bale of hay. "Pally is the best fixer in the world," she boasted. "And now it's gonna be all finished, and we can have fun on my Birthday with no workin' allowed!"

"Birthday?" Dean teased. "Is your birthday comin' up for real? I hadn't heard that," he said with a grin.

"Ha! You know you heard it, Pally, because I done told you every day for the past month!" she teased back.

"Ah, well," he said tapping his temple. "My memory ain't as good as most," he laughed. "I must'a forgot."

"You's teasin'," Florabel wagged her finger at him.

"Maybe," he said. "So what do you want for your birthday?"

The little girl shrugged. "Don't really matter. Ain't got no money for presents. But what I really want cain't be bought, anyhow."

"Oh yeah? What's that?" he asked.

Florabel kicked her heels into the bale she was sitting on and swayed back and forth shyly. "Mmm…I want…" she hesitated as she looked at the ceiling, stalling.

"Cat got your tongue?" Dean said. "Now that'd be a first!"

Florabel stuck her tongue out at him. "I want…" she bent forward, making a megaphone with her hands and whispering hoarsely through it. "I want you and Mama to kiss," she said and went back to studying the rafters of the barn.

Dean looked at Jeb in terror. The older man chuckled and shrugged back at him. Dean stopped his work a moment, leaning against a bale of hay. Taking off his heavy, leather gloves, he began slapping the dust out of them. He wiped his sweaty brow on his shoulder and grabbed his dust-bandana out of his back pocket, wiping as much smudged dirt off his face as he could. "Well, I think your mama would have a big say in something like that," he warned her.

"Mama wouldn't mind," Florabel assured. "She ain't been kissed in a long time. Girls like kisses," she instructed. "You should do it, soon. That a-way you can git married before the summer is over."

Dean choked on both the dust and the idea. "Whoa, there. You're gonna give Pally a freakin' heart attack," he said. He gave her a somewhat pained look, worry mixed with the fear of hurting someone he cared about. "I think it's a lot more complicated than that, Florabel."

"No it ain't," she contradicted. "You like her an' she likes you. Old Jeb says that life is short 'n full of blisters, but it should be filled with kisses, too. It'd make the blisters hurt a whole lot less. Ain't that right, Old Jeb?" she turned to the old man for support.

He tossed his hands in the air, but couldn't help but grin. "Don't be draggin' me into this, Miss Matchmaker. I don't want to git in trouble with neither one of ya. _A closed mouth gathers no boots_ is my motto," he said, locking his mouth and throwing away the key. He took off his gloves. "And on that note, I got to skedaddle. Me and the other old boys is gonna git everything ready for the dance tomorrow night. I expect lots of work an' lots of whiskey. I probably won't be back. I'll see you two tomorrow at the jackrabbit drive."

"Coward," Dean jabbed with a grin.

"Yep," he admitted.

"Well, don't go without me. I'll walk into town with you. I have to run an errand or two," Dean said. He strode over to Florabel and turned his back on her, patting his shoulder. She immediately hopped onto his back and wrapped her legs around his waist. "You hold on good 'n tight now," he said.

"I will, but I still think you should kiss Mama," she fussed as she talked over his shoulder to him. "Grownups is so silly, sometimes."

"Mmm hmm," he said as he swung over the ladder and followed Jeb to the barn floor. "Says the little monkey on my back," he teased once they were on solid ground again. He felt her thwap him and stick her wet finger in his ear.

"I ain't a monkey," she said. "I'm a willie-monster! GrarrRR!" she growled as she re-wet her weapon and wiggled it at him, dangerously.

"Ugh! You know, wet-willies are actually against the law in all fifty states," he warned as he set her down quickly and wiped out his ear. "Don't force me to make a citizen's arrest," he chided while the little girl squealed playfully.

She looked at him and laughed. "You's so funny! You know they's only forty-eight states, silly Pally!"

Dean looked at her bewildered. "Huh?"

**O**

Dean and Jeb had parted ways on the edge of Boise City, Jeb turning off at the dirt road to the Crawfords' farm that lay just on the northern outskirts of town. Other than a couple of quick trips through the city center on their way to Jeb's old farm, Dean hadn't spent any time here, but with Jeb's directions he was able to find _The Busy Bee _easily enough. The building was sandwiched in between _Enid's Eatery_ and _The Longhorn Hotel_. Looking up at the false fronts, Dean shook the dust out of his hair and went inside.

The tavern was no more than a dark, smoky blur. It was still and quiet, comparatively speaking, after the long walk in the persistent wind that had beat on him the whole way there. Empty tables lined the dust-coated windows, with just a few men scattered about, drinking to cut the dusty phlegm or just to pass the time. Dean stood still as he listened for a moment. The barkeep hailed him just as he heard what he had hoped he'd find.

"Can I git ya anything, Stranger?" the man asked as he pointed to the bottles behind him.

"Not yet," Dean said as he made his way past the bar, his boots echoing with loud, hollow thuds as he went. He stopped at a small alcove and watched the activity with a sly smile for a moment.

A handful of men stood huddled around the table, cues in their hands and drinks resting on the sides.

"Y'ain't gonna make it, Dex," one man said as he watched another line up his shot.

"He will too," boasted another young man.

"Two-bits says he won't."

"You're on, Charlie," came the reply.

Dean cleared his throat, catching the attention of the room. He leaned against the doorway, pulled the silver ring off his finger and tossed it in the air. With a cheeky grin and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he looked through the circle of his ring. "Anyone up for a game?"

**O**

"Nine, ten, eleven…twelve dollars and," he counted the coins in his hand. "Sixty three cents!" he gloated to himself. He twisted his ring around his finger, screwing it in place. "Ha! I'm fuckin' awesome," he celebrated as he walked along the street. About two blocks from the tavern he came upon one of the bigger businesses in town. He looked up at the sign and ducked into _Coulter's General Store_.

A voluptuous woman in her late twenties sat behind the counter, flipping through a magazine. When she heard the bell ring as the door opened, she looked Dean up and down and immediately closed her magazine and straightened her dress. "Howdy there," she beamed. "Can I help you find something, honey?"

"Uh, I'm looking for toys for a little girl," he said. The woman's cleavage drooped as she deflated.

"Oh…" she stammered. "Oh sure, honey. We got some nice dolls right over here," she led him to the back of the store.

Dean looked at the dolls. "She ain't into dolls much, I don't think. Do you have any games or puzzles?"

"Right this way," she said. "Your daughter is a tom-boy?"

"Naw, she's not mine. She's just a good friend," he admitted and was surprised to feel a pang of disappointment when he said it. The woman brightened considerably.

"Well, we got some checkers and chess games," she said with more enthusiasm than was really called for. She straightened her hair and put her hand on her hip, swaying coyly as she blew the half-inch of dust off the cardboard boxes. Before Dean could respond, something caught his eye. He picked up a small doctor's kit, complete with a toy stethoscope and thermometer.

"Oh man, this is perfect," he said as he examined the contents.

"She want to be a nurse?" she asked.

Dean laughed. "No way. She wants to be a doctor," he said proudly. The woman snorted.

"A woman doctor?"

"Hey, if anyone can do it, she can. She's smart…and really, really, _really_ tenacious. Trust me. She'll do it." He smiled and shook the kit. "I'll take it. And I need some marbles and some candy, too."

In the end he left with a brand new set of marbles, the doctor's kit, and two striped bags filled with chocolates. He counted his change. With over eight dollars left, he felt rich. He put two dollars deep into his pockets and folded the rest to give to Emma for his room and board. He just hoped she wouldn't fret at him for hustling pool.

The wind was blowing directly in his face as he headed north towards home. He had to pull his shirt up over his mouth and walk with one foot on the pavement and one foot off, guiding himself by touch as much as anything. He was in good spirits, however, and he didn't let the stinging grit upset him. Florabel's birthday was going to be something she would never forget. Once he got back to the farm, he bypassed the house, ducking directly into the barn to find a suitable hiding spot before Florabel spotted the packages.

He'd climbed the ladder to the loft and was looking around to see if there was a good niche to stow the presents, when he heard a thump below. Walking to the edge, he looked down and watched as Slaid emerged from a trapdoor in the floor between the partitions that separated Penny's stall from the rest of the barn. Dean ducked behind a bale of hay and kept a surreptitious eye on the farm-hand. He could see that the man had mud, or possibly blood, on his hands. Slaid eased the trapdoor shut and spread hay over the top of the floor in that spot as camouflage. Dean waited a few minutes after Slaid had gone before he climbed back down the ladder, his interest and suspicion piqued. That Slaid had hidden the trapdoor was very telling. Dean kicked the hay around until he found the latch. Lifting the door immediately told him that this was the source of the odor he'd smelled for weeks, its loudness made his eyes water and his stomach retch. He instinctively turned his head and gagged on the fetid rot. After catching his breath, he steeled himself and descended into the darkness.

Disoriented by the overwhelming odors, he fumbled numbly until he used the light from above to find the kerosene lamp by the wall. He lit it and looked around. The light did little to lift the gloom of the room, the air so thick and stifling it was practically chewable. Nevertheless, he took several shallow breaths and tried to comprehend what he was seeing.

_Depraved_ was too mild a descriptor. _Sadistic_ and _inhuman_ seemed just as limiting. The room was riddled with the body parts of jackrabbits and other unknown rodents and small animals. The state of decomposition varied from recent, bloated kills, to maggot and centipede infested corpses, to desiccated shells of matted fur and bones. The room was steeped in a feral cocktail of foul odors: sweat, rotting corpses, and human feces combined, causing Dean to fold at the waist and add a little bile to the mix. Resting his hands on his knees he retched several more times until he mastered his reflexes. He wiped his tearing eyes with his shirt-sleeve and looked around. The walls had been liberally smeared and stained, livid pictographs drawn in blood and shit, macabre forms in obscene poses, some of them with animal entrails nailed and affixed to the ghastly depictions. He saw a table with bowls at the far end and went to investigate. Ashes and half-burned herbs lay in the bowls. Dean immediately thought of the window-box in the bunkhouse. A sense of horror and fear for Florabel's and Emma's safety began to supersede his sense of smell. This was…this was _evil_. Bending forward, he looked closely at the runes written within a blood-circle on the table top. The strange characters were the last thing he saw before he felt himself slither to the floor, the air in his lungs whooshing out in a grunt of surprise and anxiety. Now was not the time for this. He heard himself shout _"No!"_ just as the vision closed in and swallowed him.

A series of fragmented images began stuttering at lightning speed, too fast for his brain to acknowledge beyond the bare essentials—nightmare creatures partaking in unspeakably evil acts. Each image morphed into the next before true recognition settled in. The frenetic pace was dizzying and Dean heard himself cry out as he fought to shield himself from the deluge. Eventually, the images began to slow enough for some semblance of understanding to assert itself. He saw a painted ceiling—a strange seven-point star inside a circle with detailed runes running around the parameter. A young, blond woman was bound to a chair beneath it. He could see Sam reading something from a book while the girl engaged both of them in hateful banter.

He could sense the floor beneath him in the root-cellar and he struggled to escape the vision. It was frightening and disturbing, yes, but far more than that, he needed to escape and get to Florabel and Emma and make sure they were all right. He heard himself cry out again, fighting off the vision, but he was sucked back down as the scene continued. The blond girl gave him a smug leer, her huge, black irises regarding him with deadly contempt as she assured him that someone he was inquiring about was dead. Grief flooded him as he literally tried to claw his way back to consciousness. Dean didn't want to see or hear any more. Recognizing the feel of dust beneath his hand, he dug his fingers in, his body twitching and bucking against the vision. He groped at the dirt, willing himself back, forcing the memory down. His hand flailed out and hit the corner of the altar and he held on to it. It was solid. It was real. Gripping it tightly, he worked his way back. He knew he was close when he could smell the suffocating, noisome rot of the corpses he was laying among.

His eyelashes fluttered open and he blinked several times. Leveraging himself up on his elbows, he used the altar to get back on his feet. He swayed dizzily and gulped air, but the putrid smell only served to cause his legs to buckle again. It was the sight of bright red that infuriated and devastated him enough to stay conscious. Scattered haphazardly about the table and the floor were Molly's beautiful red, downy feathers.

"You son of a bitch," Dean ground out. He should have listened to his gut instincts. He should have paid closer attention to his visions. Slaid _was_ a monster. Florabel had tried to tell him. She tried to tell everyone, but they hadn't listened. Slaid had killed Molly as part of some vile ritual. Perhaps that was how he would change into his monster-form. And, fuck, Dean had let him just be. He'd actually let Slaid eat with the Livingstons. The fucker had slept just a few hundred feet away from the house. And Dean'd simply turned a blind eye because he hadn't believed his own visions. Dean crushed the feathers between his fingers and held on to the altar until he had his bearings enough to crawl back up the ladder. He staggered and fell to his knees once he was back on the main floor of the barn. He let the trapdoor drop, scattering hay over it. With a lurch, he rose to his feet and reeled drunkenly as he left the barn.

Compared to the root-cellar the choking dust actually seemed refreshing. Dean breathed in deeply as he crossed the distance from the barn to the farmhouse. Before going into the house, he stopped and made sure he wasn't going to vomit again, taking another moment to just breathe and let his stomach settle. His hands were still shaking as he turned the doorknob and went inside.

"Dean! You's back! Did you have a good time?" Emma asked as she bustled around the kitchen. "I think I actually scraped enough ingredients together to make a cake," she boasted. "Ain't got nothing to make icing with, but that don't matter none," she said cheerfully as she mixed the confection with a large wooden spoon. She looked up when he didn't make any response and stopped mid-stir when she saw his face. "Dean. What's wrong?" she said, wiping her hands on her apron and moving across the room to stand before him. "Tell me," she demanded, fearing that someone had been hurt.

He cleared his throat. There was no way he could tell her anything. Not yet. He still had to investigate a little more. "N—nothing," he said. "Uh, I just—I just went to town. Nothing's wrong. I brought you this," he said reaching in his pocket and clumsily handing her the cash. She looked at the wad of bills, confused.

"What's all this?" she asked, not understanding the gesture or his demeanor.

"I earned it playing pool. It's cool, Em. Nobody got mad. We had a good time. I met Charlie and Ed Haffner and Mac and Dex Osteen—a couple of others. I want you to have that for letting me stay here. It's not enough. It's not near enough," he said as he distractedly glanced about him.

"Dean you don't have to do that," she said and moved to hand the money back, but he was walking away towards the parlor and looking into the empty room.

"Where's Florabel?" he asked sharply. Worry was eating at him. He needed to make sure she was safe.

"She's been bouncing off the walls, and her cough was bad today. I just sent her up to take a nap for an hour. I doubt she'll actually sleep," she laughed. "But I had to git her out from under foot while I baked the cake," she admitted.

Dean turned back. "Oh," he said. "OK." He started moving around the room like a caged animal.

"Did anything happen? You's acting strange," she said. "You been drinking?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm not sick. Feel fine," he said absently, not having truly absorbed the questions she'd asked. "Listen," he switched gears. "Do you mind if I go up and see Florabel for a minute?"

Emma hesitated, bewildered by Dean's mood. "Dean, please tell me what's wrong," she asked worriedly.

"Nothing's wrong," he lied. "I'm sorry. I just had a spell in the barn when I was putting some things away," he said waving his hand in the vague direction of the barn. "I'm just a little freaked out. It's nothing, though."

Emma closed in on him again, but Dean backed away, too tense to be touched. "Are you sure you's OK? What did you see? Do you need to talk about it?"

"It was just another jumbled mess. I thought I'd just go sit with Florabel. You know how she can always cheer me up. I'm fine—really Em. I am," he tried to convince her.

"Well, all right," she finally relented. "You go on up. As soon as this cake is done, I'll heat some stew for the three of us. Sound good?"

"Sounds great," he said and ran up the stairs.

He gathered himself before the door and tried to hide how shaken he was. He knocked lightly with his knuckle and cracked the door slightly. When he didn't see Florabel in the bed, he opened the door and stepped further inside. He saw some jiggling of the blanket-fort he'd helped the little girl build the day before and took a steadying breath of relief. "You in there, kiddo?" he asked softly. The fort wobbled again and then stopped. After a long pause came a muffled reply.

"I ain't awake. Mama says I'm gittin' on her last nerve an' if'n I don't take a nap I cain't go to the jackrabbit drive." The fort rocked and swayed again briefly. Dean saw a small foot pop out from under one of the walls and then recoil back quickly.

Despite everything, Dean couldn't help but smile. "How're you talkin' if you're asleep?" he asked.

"I—uh…" There was a pause, followed by some overblown snoring noises.

Dean slipped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door. Sitting on the bed, he reached over and lifted the sheet that served as the door of the fort. "Come on out, Florabel," he said. "Your mama said it was OK for me to visit with you for a spell."

The child's head poked out from behind the flap immediately. "Good, 'cause I was bored of sleepin'," she complained. "Did you have fun goin' to town?" she asked.

"I did," he assured her. "Here, come up and sit right here so's we can talk," he said, patting her pillow. Florabel jumped up and sat on top of the covers, drawing her legs up into her nighty as she scrunched her toes in her blanket.

"Did I do somethin' wrong?" she asked with a worried crease in her forehead.

"Heck no," Dean said. "No. I just wanted to ask you a few questions is all. Just between you 'n me." He added conspiratorially.

"Mmm, OK," she agreed after thinking it over.

Dean hesitated a moment and shifted position until he was fully facing the girl. "So…" he stalled a moment, not quite sure how to even begin this. He finally decided on the direct approach, stated with as little solemnity as possible. "So, I was wondering about the time you saw Slaid turn into a monster," he said as casually as he could.

The little girl was small for her age, but it astounded Dean how much smaller she got as soon as those words left his lips. She shriveled up into herself immediately, hugging her legs and rocking back and forth slightly. Her eyes fixated on her toes. She made no answer other than the slightest of shrugs.

"Can you tell me what you saw?" Dean prompted quietly, as he studied her toes along with her. Florabel's shoulders hunched up toward her ears, and she held her legs tighter. "Hey, Florabel," he tried to reassure her. "Ain't no one ever gonna know but you 'n me. When did he change into a monster?" he asked again.

She studied her toes, touching each one in turn as she thought long and hard about things. "It was just after Henry went to Jesus," she finally offered up. "When Mama was sick in bed." She pressed her toes into Dean's leg, making contact with him, grounding herself, but still staring at her feet. "But no one never believed me," she said indignantly.

"I believe you, Florabel," he said. The little girl looked up at him for the first time since he'd mentioned Slaid and monsters. He nodded at her. "That's right," he said in response to her incredulous expression. "I believe you. In fact," he said tapping her toe as it pressed against him. "I think I seen him turn into a monster, too."

Her eyes went wide. "You did?" she gasped.

"Yep," he said. "So I want to know what happened the time you saw him, so I don't feel so alone and scared no more."

Florabel rose to her knees and leaned in, patting his arm to offer comfort. "It was scary, wasn't it, Pally?"

"It was," he confirmed.

"An' did he growl at you, too?" she asked.

"Kind of," he said. "Why don't you tell me about the time you saw him change into a monster, just so I know I ain't crazy,"

"You ain't crazy, Pally," she said settling in to tell her story. "Well, it was when Old Jeb was taking care of Mama when she got sick. An' Slaid wanted to play marbles with me, but we had to go to the bunkhouse, he said, so's we wouldn't wake Mama up. Then, when we got there, he changed right into that monster, an' he growled at me. GrrrrrarrRrrrR!" she demonstrated. Turning her hands into monster-claws, she continued growling and pawing the air. "He scared me so bad, Pally. I tried to run away."

"Did he start to shimmer and disappear a little?" Dean asked.

Florabel thought a moment. She tapped her lips, thinking back. "Mmm, no," she said.

Dean slumped a little in disappointment. He considered other options. "Did his eyes turn all black?"

She shook her head again. "No, but they was rollin' around. And he wiggled a lot."

"Wiggled?" Dean asked, confused.

"Uh huh," she asserted. "Like this," she said as she resumed her monster-pose. "RaawwrrRr!" She got right up in Dean's face, growling ferociously. She started gyrating and undulating against him as she growled and roared. Looming up, she grabbed his face and licked his cheek while she rolled her eyes around. Then, suddenly, she swept down with a ferocious growl and grabbed Dean's crotch.

The touch was so shocking, so completely unlooked for, so utterly unexpected, that Dean literally jolted off the bed as though he'd been electrocuted. Florabel looked up at him with soulfully innocent eyes. "Did he do that to you, too, Pally?" she asked.

Dean stared at the girl, floored—absolute horror fusing with a quiet, profound dread. It took him a moment to even process what had just happened. The more he stood there, though, the more distressed the little girl became.

"Did he grab you, too, Pally?" she asked, pointing to Dean's groin. "It hurt, didn't it?"

_Oh God._

"Florabel?" That's all that Dean could get to come out of his mouth for a moment. He looked at the beautiful child on that bed. She was watching him sympathetically.

"It's OK, Pally. You can tell me," she said, her eyes filled with concern and implicit trust.

_Oh God._

He sat down again, gripping her by the shoulders, then readjusting the touch so that his hands merely rested there. He didn't want to spook her. Finally, he asked the question—fearing the answer. "Florabel, did he touch you down there?" he asked pointing.

She looked down and nodded. "He did, Pally, and it hurt," she said.

_Oh God._

She sat Indian-style and sighed. "I tried to run away, but he caught me and he pushed me down on the floor. All my marbles spilled and rolled everywhere," she mourned. "He was growlin' and pantin'. His eyes was a-rollin and a-rollin' just like yours done when you was so sick. I was scared at first that you was a monster, too, but you wasn't. It was just your fever," she admitted. "Slaid didn't have no fever. He weren't even speakin' English no more. He started talkin' in his other language. Or maybe it was _monster-talk_. His fingers pressed and pressed into me, and I screamed because it hurt so bad. Then, he put his hand over my mouth and kept lickin' me all over. Like a dog, he licked me. GrarRrrr! An' then he panted and growled some more. That's when he pulled the thing out of his tummy."

Dean swallowed bile. "What thing?" he asked, thickly.

"It was this thing a'comin' out 'a him, right about here," she pointed to her crotch. "It weren't like Henry's little will. It was this big thing that grew out of a pile of ugly, tangled hair, hard and long. Didn't he jab you with it, too? It must 'a been something only a monster has, an' that's when he hurt me so bad, Pally."

Dean couldn't take anymore. He swept the child up and crushed her to him in a hug that nearly devoured them both. Florabel put her arms around him and started to whimper with the memory. She laid her head on his shoulder. "He jabbed and jabbed and jabbed me until I couldn't even scream no more 'cause it hurt so bad. And I was bleedin'." Dean held her slight body fiercely as he fought for composure. "It hurt for days and days," she said.

"Why didn't you tell your Mama or Jeb what he did?" he asked.

"I did tell them!" she defended herself. "I tol' them he turned into a monster, but they wouldn't believe me," she said. "An' Slaid said if'n I tol' them about him jabbin' me, he'd jab them even worse than what he done to me." She pulled back and looked Dean in the eye. "So I didn't. I just tol' them what a mean, growlin' monster he was, because he didn't say I couldn't tell them that. But Mama said there weren't no such things, even though there is so. I didn't want her to find out about monsters by being poked by one, like me. And Mama was already so sad about Henry. I didn't want Slaid to hurt her. So you cain't tell her, Pally, 'cause then Slaid will hurt her with his jabber. Please don't tell her. Promise me," she demanded.

Dean couldn't catch the tear that slipped down his cheek. "I won't say anything." He told her the ugly lie.

Florabel patted Dean's cheek, tenderly. "How hard did he jab you? Did he make you bleed, too?" she asked.

He tried to smile as he shook his head. "He didn't jab me. I got away," he said with a trembling jaw.

The little girl sighed with relief. "Good! I'm glad, 'cause it really, _really_ hurts. You stay away from Slaid."

"I will," he said as he let her go. He pulled the covers down and began tucking her in as he wiped another tear.

"Why's you cryin', Pally?" she asked. "Did he do anything else?"

He shook his head and cleared his throat. "No. I'm just sad that he hurt you." He busied himself with her blanket, painstakingly tucking and folding, working to master his emotions so that he could speak steadily again. "Slaid did a terrible thing to you. And I promise you that he will _never_ do it again. Ever. I'm going to make sure of that. Until then, you stay away from Slaid. Don't you ever go near him unless I'm with you," he said finally. "I promised you, now you promise me."

"I promise," she said, offering her pinky to make it stick. Dean latched on with his own and they soberly shook on it. "I'm glad you're here with us. I ain't near as scared with you around."

"You get some sleep," he said, kissing her wheat-colored hair.

"I love you, Pally," she said, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging it tight. There wasn't a trace of self-consciousness to the statement, no hint of baggage, no complication beyond a little girl responding to someone who'd shown her kindness, someone who'd played marbles with her, who'd carried her piggy-back down a loft and who'd hugged her when she was scared. It was pure and innocent and very, _very_ real.

"I love you, too, Florabel," he said, feeling the same way.

**O**

February 9, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma

The initial blast from the Cyclone flung Sam right into Dean, forcing a grunt from the elder hunter as his shoulder was pinned beneath his brother. Another massive gust sent both of them rolling as one toward the back wall. The incantation that the spirit had uttered was echoing around the room, and Sam could swear he heard it resonating from within him as well as from without. Sam was able to hook onto a support beam with one hand, while grabbing at his brother's left arm with the other. A scream of agony was forced from Dean, his wounded arm brutally yanked tight as he dangled in his brother's grip.

"Sammy! Jesus! Fuck!" he cried out. He tried to reach up with his right hand to switch arms, but another gust blew past him, causing Sam to have to pull even harder. He screamed in time to the strident cracking of the back wall as it started to collapse.

"Hang on, Dean! I got you!" Sam tried to reassure him. He attempted to pull his brother closer to him so that he could grab something else besides his arm, but every time he tried, another gust would set them both swaying precariously. The shrieking blasts became more furious, striking them with wind-tunnel precision. Breathing became all but impossible, he was choking on the wind as it forced its way down his throat.

"Fuck, Sam! Lemme go," Dean begged. The pain was too much. "L'go!" he pleaded.

The wind was coming way too fast. The back wall shattered and completely blasted away onto the prairie as the Cyclone approached. "No! I got you," Sam refused. He didn't know what good it was going to do to hang onto his brother. The Cyclone was getting so close, there was simply no way they were going to hang on much longer, but at the same time, there was no way he was going to let go of him, either. No damn way. He heard more splintering above him, and soon he was ducking as wood flew around them. He yanked on his brother's arm in a desperate attempt to get him close enough so that he could shield him from the falling debris. Dean's face was twisted with pain. Sam tried to maneuver himself around the beam he was holding onto so that he could straddle it and use it to hold him in place as he pulled his brother with both arms, but the ghost flickered in front of them.

"Hala is mine, at least," the ghost said as it swaggered close to Dean's face. "That you cannot take from me," it gloated.

"Why won' he j'st shuddup?" Dean looked at his brother. "Please make 'im b'quiet, S'mmy. M'arm h'rts," he slurred, blinking slowly. "M'tired."

Before Sam could do or say anything else, the wind stuttered and died briefly. Something flickered in Sam's peripheral vision, but he didn't pay any attention to it. He took the lull as an opportunity to readjust his grip on Dean. "Give me your other hand!" he called out, but Dean wasn't really hearing him. The elder hunter looked at his brother with confused, pain-muddled eyes. "Your other hand!" Sam cried again. Dean tried to swing it up feebly but only made it halfway. Sam took the chance and let go of the column momentarily as he readjusted and grabbed fistfuls of his brother's shirt pulling him closer.

The spirit growled out at the unexpected break in the attack, letting more sparks fly from its hands as it commanded the Cyclone to advance. The ghost uttered the incantation again and the echoing words were carried by the wind, flying past and around the hunters as Sam tried to hang on to the support beam. He looked back as he braced for more wind and noticed another shimmering figure on the opposite side of the room. Its shape was more amorphous and undefined than the first ghost, and it was flickering in and out so much that Sam couldn't make out any details whatsoever. Whatever it was and whatever it was doing, it definitely had an effect on the Cyclone. The spinning cloud began to cease its frenetic rotation and the winds died down. Only the strange whispering continued to echo around the room.

The first ghost, the one that had spoken to them, began to flicker and seethe. It circled around until it was positioned on the near side of the Cyclone. Jets of electricity spewed from its hands as it released a bitter snarl. There was an answering call from the figure on the far side. And the sounds of the incantation became shrill and cacophonous. The Cyclone started to crackle with energy as it slowly started to rotate in the opposite direction.

Sam tried to pull his brother closer to him and get a firmer grip as the wind began to shift. It was no longer blowing, but was rather drawing the air into the Cyclone itself. Both specters started to wink in and out of phase, and Sam felt a shock hit him as a blue finger of static electricity started to run up and down the beam he was holding on to. As he looked around, he noticed that everything was beginning to sizzle and snap with blue spider-veins of energy. The vacuum became stronger and he felt himself being pulled toward the Cyclone as it began to rotate counter-clockwise rapidly. The first specter became outraged and fought for control, but the strength of the two entities battling took its toll on the structure of the Cyclone. A core of light began to open up in the center of the blackness, and Sam felt Dean begin to slip towards it. He still held him tightly by his shirt, but the elder hunter was barely responsive.

"Dean!" he shouted as the wind flew past them, drawn into the center of the vortex. Whatever the second entity had done, whether it was trying to stop the attack or assert one of its own, the battle between the two spirits was causing the Cyclone to suck the wind back into itself, dragging everything along with it including the two hunters. "Hang on, man," he begged. Dean looked up with weary eyes, milky with pain. He tried to reach out and missed.

"Don't l'go, Sam," came Dean's tattered, feverish plea. He looked behind him, eyeing the black Cyclone. "Please don't let go."

The pressure in the room took Sam's breath away. It was like being sucked deep under water. His ears started to pop. Everything sounded distant and muted, except the words carried by the wind. He ventured one more glance at the battling spirits—deep in the throes of a bizarre show-down. They no longer appeared concerned with the brothers. They were each electrically tethered to the vortex, a game of all-out tug of war that was beginning to break the prize in two.

With the force of a sonic-boom, the vortex split open, drawing everything inward. Wood and other construction debris flew into the core of the storm without appearing to be expelled, as though the Cyclone had simply consumed it all. The younger hunter felt his grip on his brother weaken as the shirt started to rip under his fingers. "No! Dean! Grab my hand!" Sam screamed. "Dean! Goddamn it! Grab my hand!" Dean tried to respond, reaching up with the last of his strength.

Just as their fingers touched, the beam Sam was holding onto split with a tremendous, thundering crack. The brothers made eye-contact, acknowledging the moment, silently speaking ten-thousand-and-three words to each other. Their anchor to the floor broken, they began to tumble towards the vortex. With everything that he had, Sam reached out and made one last grab for Dean's shirt, but he only caught his fingers in the thin leather strap that his amulet was attached to. It broke off as they fell into the storm, Dean plummeting right into the blinding light at the core of the storm while Sam was flung wide, hitting the outer bank of the spinning wind.

Sam's last conscious observation was seeing the vortex completely swallow his brother, as he, himself, was tossed around the outer parameter of the storm. As he was thrown clear, his mind darkened and all he was left with was the whispering wind.

**O**

_April 12, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

He didn't feel the stairs beneath him as he made his way out—didn't even remember walking through the parlor or toward the back door. He had one thought only. _Find Slaid_. Apparently Emma had been talking to Dean and getting no response, because she was now clearly upset.

"Dean, answer me, please!" she said as she put her hand on the door knob to try and stop his exit. He looked at her vaguely.

"I'm sorry," he offered. "What?"

"Stop," she said. "Please stop and tell me what's wrong."

"Wrong?" he asked distantly. "Nothing. I just need to talk to Slaid a moment. Is he in the bunkhouse?"

"Slaid?" she blustered. "What's he done?" She positioned herself between Dean and the door. "Dean, what's he done?"

Dean couldn't. He just couldn't. Not now. Not this weekend. She'd been through so much, they both had. He'd be true to his word for now. "I…he…" he faltered. "He messed with some tools I was using in the barn. He pissed me off, Emma. I just wanted a word with him about it."

"I'll speak to him for you," she said.

"Em…" he pleaded. "I'll be civil."

"Well he ain't even here," she said. "He went off to help at the Crawfords' farm just a little bit ago. Won't even see him again until tomorrow. It's just you, me, 'n Florabel tonight. I got stew warmin' up, now. You wash up and we can have a good evening together."

"OK," he promised. "I just want to go out to the barn and find a better hiding place for the presents I got Florabel. I'll be right back."

"You didn't need to have done that," she chided, but her eyes smiled nonetheless. "You'll spoil her."

"Well, she could use a little spoiling," he said. He opened the door. "I'll be right back."

He ran right past the barn, heading toward the bunkhouse. Once inside he made a frenzied circuit around the room, first pulling all of the herbs out of the window box, then stopping at Slaid's drawer to retrieve the marbles rolling around inside. Jumping over the cot, he went to Jeb's drawer and paused just briefly before opening it. He went down the drawers, searching each in turn before going on to the next. In the next to the last drawer his fingers felt a hard lump under a pair of spare socks. He moved them aside and grabbed Jeb's small revolver.

Dean studied the weapon with the eyes of an expert, his agile fingers flying over the gun, opening the cylinder and checking the bullets.

"Needs a good oiling," he tutted as he looked down the sights.

This time there was no warning—no sense of falling, no slow melding of scenes. One minute he was looking down the barrel of a gun, the next he was looking at Sam looking down a barrel of a gun—at him. He was lying on his back in a dark, dilapidated building. Sam was standing over him, his face contorted with hatred and rage. Dean could barely breathe, his chest felt as though it had been ripped open. He watched as Sam readjusted the gun in his hand, finger twitching on the trigger.

"_You hate me that much?"_ he heard himself say. He tried to reach out to Sam, but he wasn't in the driver's seat again. He was observing only. _"You think you can kill your own brother?"_ Dean heard a buzzing in his ears. Brother? Sam was his brother? _"Then go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it!_" Just as he spoke the last two words, he flinched reflexively as Sam, his brother, pulled the trigger several times.

The scene changed. He was standing on an ice-cold dock looking into the dark water of a lake. Sensing danger from behind, he turned to see his brother standing several yards away. Again, he tried to reach out to the young man, tried to make physical contact, but his body wouldn't respond. He watched in horror as Sam raised the gun and pulled the trigger with a smirk. Dean felt the stinging burn as the bullet penetrated his shoulder. He grabbed at the wound and felt himself pitch into the frigid water below.

Dean bolted up with a guttural cry of pain and shock. He was back at the bunkhouse. His breathing was coming in gasps and gulps as he looked at his shoulder. Pulling his hand away, he looked at his scar and sieved through the images, connecting dots and trying to make sense out of what he'd seen.

Sam was his brother. And his brother had shot him—had left him for dead. Dean felt the bunkhouse floor tilt and he tumbled to his side, pressing his cheek against the dusty floor. He watched dust grains blow away from his nose and mouth as he heaved in and out rapidly. The betrayal toppled everything he thought he knew. Sam. Sam had hated him. Sam had sneered and joyfully pulled the trigger, nearly ending his life. He surely would have succeeded had it not been for the Livingstons. He closed his eyes and spoke the word over and over in disbelief and shock. _Sam. Sammy. Sam_. He still had no true memory of the events or of his brother, but the hopes he had built upon that name had kept him going all this while, had been his grounding rod. But he'd had it all wrong. Sam wasn't looking for him, wasn't feeling the same sense of loss. Sam wasn't wondering what might have happened to his brother. _He_ had happened to him. Sam was the reason he was here. And it was ten times worse knowing that he had been family. Dean couldn't help but wonder if he had done something to deserve it.

"It's OK," Dean whispered. "I'm all right," he chanted. He laid there, lulling himself into a trance as he repeated the words over and over. "I'm OK. I'm OK." Sam had wanted him dead. But he was alive. Lying on his side he could see under Jeb's bed. As he chanted his mantra over and over, he noticed a lone marble that must have rolled away when Florabel had been attacked—when she had been raped. He focused on the blue marble and reached for it, closing his palm around it as he continued his constant reiterations. "I'm OK," he said again.

For the past two months Dean had felt like he'd been constantly pulled in two directions. But it had been a lie—a delusion. Sam had not been tugging on the rope. Dean had simply been pulling against the Livingstons, trying to hold onto a life that didn't want him. "I'm all right," he affirmed. Everything he'd believed about his past had been wrong. He was not needed, was not wanted. "I'm OK," he promised himself. He grasped the marble in his hand and held it to his heart. "I'm good," he said convincingly.

He sat up. There was no way to reconcile his past. There was no way to ever make it right. It had been a savage, ugly thing, a place where loyalty meant nothing, where love wasn't real. He was better off where he was. "I'm fine," he boasted, and put the blue marble in his pocket with the others he had reclaimed from Slaid's drawer. He stuck the gun in another pocket and stood up on quivering legs. "They need me," he said, thinking of Florabel and Emma who had cared for him better than any family member could have, who had healed him, supported him, and loved him without ever asking for anything in return. "What I have is good," he assured himself. "This is fine. They need me." There was a monster on the loose. Perhaps not the kind he had initially thought, but it was just as insidious and dangerous as any fantastic, supernatural monster he'd fought in his past—or had thought he'd fought. It didn't matter, though. Not really. The only thing that mattered was what was happening here, right now. He'd take care of Slaid. He would hunt him down and make him pay for what he'd done. There was no way he would allow Slaid to ever touch anyone like that again. Dean didn't need Sam. He didn't need to remember his past. He was fine.

He stumbled out the door and made his way toward the house. "This is where I belong," he said as a tear sprung out. He crisply wiped it away. "I'm _fine_," he insisted, even as more tears fell. As he crested a small dust-dune, he lost his footing and fell to his knees. "I'm…" he began, but he crumpled and started to heave green bile into the dust. He retched and coughed, tears leaving muddy tracks down his cheeks. He hugged his stomach, urging it to relax. There was no need to get so upset. His past didn't matter. Sam didn't matter. He didn't need someone like that in his life. All the better that his brother, his would-be murderer, was long gone. Sam had done him a favor by abandoning him.

He looked down and stared at the oily slime he'd vomited into the dust. "I'm fine," he nodded to himself. "Everything is fine."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	11. Blood Of The Lamb

_**A/N: This story has been beta'd by NongPradu, Numpty, and Beckydaspatz, and I am ever, EVER so grateful to them. They are always kind enough to tell me when I write well, brave enough to break it to me when I don't, and tenacious enough to wade through chapters pit-marked with editing fossils, commas strewn haphazardly, and sentences that need the jaws of life to get their logic untangled. In short, they make me look damn good. I am currently acting as beta for Numpty's "The Trick Is To Keep Breathing" and Beckydaspatz's "Devil Within". I encourage you to read these marvelous stories! **_

_**A/N: Warning for language and adult themes. This chapter in particular contains non-graphically described (but potentially disturbing and upsetting) situations of children in grave peril. See Chapter 1 for full warnings/disclaimers**_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 11: Blood Of The Lamb**

**O**

_April 13, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

It was more night than morning when Florabel opened her eyes, her tummy flopping with twitchy excitement as soon as she realized the weekend had finally arrived. With two whole days of non-stop Birthday celebrations, not even Christmas could have incited as much off-the-rails, hyperactive adrenaline. Standing on her bed, she danced a very private jig of joy and hopped off, getting dressed in record time. A string of unspoken superlatives fluttered across her face as she looked in the mirror, but she swallowed everything down, trying extra hard to be quiet. She wriggled with anticipation and licked her hand, taming her bed-head and swooping her hair into a manageable, single braid. She promised herself she'd wash up good and proper just as soon as chores were done.

First things first, though. She needed to sneak downstairs and poke Pally awake. Chore time never felt at all like work when Pally was with her, teasing her and laughing as he caught centipedes faster than she'd ever thought possible. She shoved her feet into a pair of floppy socks and laid her plans. Pally needed to have fun today. He'd been quiet and mopey yesterday. He wouldn't eat his supper even after her mama had fussed at him mightily; then, he'd been restless and uneasy, wandering aimlessly about the house. She tried to get him to play marbles with her, but he didn't even feel like doing that. Seeing monsters sure took a lot out of a person, she knew better than anyone. She nodded to herself as she hastily plunged her feet into her shoes. Maybe Slaid had used his jabber on him after all, and he just didn't want to say so. She would understand if he'd fibbed. That kind of thing was hard to talk about. It could definitely ruin anyone's appetite and make a person fractious. She'd just have to work extra hard to cheer him up.

She tiptoed across the hardwood floor. Her mama's room was right next door and if she got caught up this early, she'd be sent right back to bed. Opening the door, she slunk out and turned to scamper past her mama's door, when she was surprised to see Pally sitting quietly at the head of the stairs. He spied her and immediately palmed something into his pocket.

"Whatcha doin', Pally?" she whispered, padding over to him. He straightened his back, moving away from the wall he'd been slouched against and gave her half a smile. He raked his fingers through his hair, his shaky hands hinting at an edgy weariness, his red-rimmed eyes confirming it.

"I was too excited," he said. Florabel looked at his sad eyes and hollow cheeks. She didn't think he looked very excited at all, but she didn't say anything. "Couldn't sleep," he continued to fib. "I decided to wait for you, but you should still be in bed. It ain't quite morning yet."

"I cain't sleep neither!" she said as she flopped into his lap, uninvited but not unwelcome. "Ouch!" she exclaimed. Whatever he'd put into his pocket was hard. "What is that, Pally? That smarts!" Dean quickly shifted her to his other knee.

"It's nothin'," he said evasively. "Oh, hey…" He changed the subject and dug into his other pocket. "Look what I found." He opened his fist and poured four marbles into her hand.

"My lost marbles!" she whispered enthusiastically. "How'd you git 'em?"

"Birthday fairy brought 'em." He gave her another partial smile.

The little girl pinched her brows together. "That ain't a real smile, Pally," she scolded softly. "How come you ain't happy?"

"Who says I ain't happy?"

"Your eyes say it," she said. She lowered her voice even more. "Did Slaid hurt you?"

Dean put his arm around her and rubbed her back. "No. I'm fine," he said.

"You ain't, though," Florabel insisted. "I know you purty good, an' they's somethin' wrong. If'n it ain't Slaid, what is it? You have a bad spell? Is you missin' Sam agin?"

Dean released a derisive huff. "No," he said. But then he faltered. "Maybe," he confessed. "I don't know," he sighed, frustrated that he could still feel Sam. The idea of him itched like a phantom-limb.

"You'll see him again, Pally. You just got to believe."

He shook his head and swallowed thickly. "I don't think so," he said, his voice hitching suddenly. They sat in laden silence, Dean thinking of his irrational attachment to Sam—trying to shovel it away like drifting dust blocking his only escape route. It's not like Sam had been a real brother. What did it matter? Why did losing something he couldn't truly remember make him feel this brittle and breakable? "I think you might be stuck with me," he said, finally.

Florabel melted against him. "Then, this really is the best day ever. Even if they was no jackrabbit drive or dance," she whispered. "Mama an' me will keep you forever 'n ever. We won't never hurt you." She smiled up at him in blissful contentment. Reaching up tenderly, she gently placed a blue marble into one of his nostrils.

"Uh, Florabel—what are you doing?" he asked.

"Giving you a present," she said dreamily, her blue eyes brimming with love. "It's a lucky marble. You have to keep it forever."

"You're a weird kid. You know that?" he said with a laugh.

"Maybe," she allowed. "But at least you's smilin' now."

He took the marble out of his nose and looked at it. It was the marble he'd retrieved from under Jeb's cot. He held it up to her eyes. "Same pretty color as your eyes, Florabel," he said. "I'll never part with it," he promised and stuffed it back in his pocket.

**O**

_February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Sam sighed. He watched Bobby scrub his face with his hand. The old hunter glanced at Ellen and the two of them shared a devastated look. "Jesus, boy," Bobby said at last. "This is sure one hell of a mess."

"Tell me he's not dead, Bobby," Sam said. "Tell me we can get him back." Bobby took off his cap and scratched his head.

"We're getting him back," Sam insisted. "So let's get to work."

The old hunter released a puff of tense air. "We hear you, kid." He looked at Ellen. "Jesus," he said again. He put the cap back on. "OK, so what do we know, here? We got us two vengeful spirits and an elemental, by the sounds of it."

"Hala," Ellen said. "That's what he called it, Sam?"

"I think so," the young hunter said. Ellen thought a moment and then moved to the open laptop.

"Bobby, you remember 'bout ten years ago when Joshua banished that elemental up in Rome, NY? What was it that he called it? _Ale? Ala?_ What do you want to bet they're related?" She settled in, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "Here!" she said. Sam and Bobby gathered around.

"It's a Russian wind-demon?" Sam mused. "Can a wind-demon swallow people?"

Bobby looked up from the laptop. "Technically it says it's a Slavic wind-demon. There's various related lore all over Eastern Europe. We're talking very dark, raw energy," he said. "That's probably why your brain _rebooted_ when you got too close; though, I've heard that even weaker elementals can scramble folks' eggs if they don't know what they're doing with 'em," he said as he continued to read and report. "These things are barely sentient. Back a couple hundred years ago, folks used to think they were a source of power to be tapped—that anyone who summoned and compelled the demon would gain power over nature. Some even believed you could gain power over people, that one could control them somehow."

"Yeah," said Ellen, reading over his shoulder. "But it ain't so. These demons don't bestow power. The most that folks can do is direct or conduct the demon, focus its power to destroy things."

"How in the hell did it know him? Dean was adamant that he'd never been here before, but the spirit specifically named him," Sam asked.

"It don't make a lick of sense," Bobby agreed.

"And how or why did it take Dean?" Sam continued.

"I don't know," Bobby said. "From what you describe it sounds like two spirits were trying to control the thing. If you have two people pulling on something, sometimes you wind up breaking the very thing you're fightin' over. And this thing is just energy."

Ellen looked up. "Shit," she said. "It says these things were once used as doorways or portals." She went back to reading a moment. "Russian folklore states that these were used by black sorcerers and mystics to move about from place to place. They'd summon two or three demons in different locations and travel from one to the other. It says only the most powerful mystics were ever able to control the wind-demon in this fashion, though, and that it was ill advised, because," she read. "_It was as though he who walked through had taken a draught of the River Lethe, his mind cleared of past and present with no propitious means of recollection._" Ellen looked at the other hunters. "Who does that remind you of?" She shook her head. "So we have to be dealing with a bitch of a ghost. It has to be strong."

"Or maybe it has to do with the two opposing spirits having a pissing contest. Could be that it's feeding off of their combined energies," Bobby offered.

"But wouldn't there have to be a wind-demon summoned somewhere else for it to be used as a doorway?" Sam wondered.

"Sounds like it," Ellen said.

"So," Bobby looked from one hunter to the other. "All we have to do is find the other person who happened to have summoned a wind-demon somewhere on the planet and ask them for our friend back."

Sam paced. "Dean would have called even if he'd ended up in Siberia. He'd have found a way if he could." He felt sick inside as he ran his hands through his hair. "He was bad off even before he got too close to the demon. So he's probably hurt and scrambled, both. How are we going to get him back if we don't know where the other elemental has been summoned?"

Ellen paused a moment. "It's too bad we can't just get the elemental to reopen the portal and go fetch him," she said. "But whoever tried to go after him would wind up with no memories of why they went there in the first place. We'd just lose the other person as well."

Bobby looked up. "That gives me an idea that might work," he said shooing Ellen away from the keyboard and started plugging slowly away at something. "Anyone up for trapping a wind-demon and keeping two vengeful spirits at bay for a while?"

"You make that sound so easy, Bobby," Sam huffed.

"Ain't gonna be easy. It's gonna be reckless, dumb and dangerous," he said.

"Aw now, Bobby Singer, I always knew you'd eventually say those three little words that would make my heart go pitter-patter," Ellen said with a laugh. "How can I resist?"

**O**

_April 13, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The sun had no warmth to it, but it _was_ the sun. Visible for the first time in over a month, it shone down bright enough to cast pale shadows. There was even a blue tinge to the sky. The wind still kicked dirt in their faces as they walked, but it was much calmer than it had been. They'd nearly forgotten what it was like. Florabel thought it was a perfect start to a perfect weekend, and the fact that they had officially started it by walking toward Boise City was enough to make her burst with happiness. Her mama had spent the morning making her wash up and change into her best overalls that she used to wear only to school. Mama and Pally had worked together packing the baked beans that mama had made for the dance that night and getting everything ready to go. She couldn't believe they were finally on the way to the jackrabbit drive. Sandwiched in between the adults, the little girl skip-hopped joyfully as they made their way toward town. Emma and Dean each took one of Florabel's hands and let her swing between them.

"Higher! Higher!" she sang as they took running steps to get the leverage to swing her up further than they had before. As she came down Dean caught her and hoisted her up onto his shoulders. The little girl squealed and held onto his chin. "I ain't never been so tall before!" she gasped.

"Be careful," Dean said. "Your head might hit the clouds. How's the weather up there?"

Florabel bounced and shimmied happily. She wet her finger and stuck it high into the air. "Fair to middlin'!" she announced. "How's the weather down there?"

Dean took his own reading. "Fair to middlin' down here, too," he said.

"Don't you hurt his shoulder, baby girl," Emma warned as Florabel continued to bounce.

"She's fine," Dean said with a smile. "Here, let me get that," he said as he reached out and took the basket Emma was carrying. Dean shifted it into his other hand and gently put his arm around Emma's shoulder when she took a small misstep off the side of the road. Florabel watched as her mama moved in just a little closer to him, giggling with joy when she noticed that Pally just kept holding Emma's shoulder.

"What so funny?" Dean squinted as he looked up at her.

"Nothin'," she said. "This is just the best day ever. I cain't help myself!"

They walked the rest of the way, chatting and laughing as they went. Dean had worked to put aside the devastation of the past twenty-four hours, determined to do whatever he needed to make the day special. And, truthfully, the walk into town with Emma and Florabel had been so enjoyable that he really did begin to let go and relax. The feel of Florabel's slight weight on his shoulders and Emma's gentle presence next to him was a comforting balm. The solace he found in them was genuine. He gave Emma's shoulder an affectionate pat, and she responded with a soft, open smile as they walked.

After a couple of miles Emma pointed in front of them. "Look at all them people," she said. They were almost to the Crawford Farm where the drive was going to start and end, and people were beginning to bottle-neck at the dirt road that led to the farm. Folks nodded pleasantly to them as they all made their way down the road that had once been lined with elm trees, planted as a windbreak or, perhaps, for shade. The trees were all dead, now, though—wind-beaten and shriveled into twisted pillars with dust lying in drifts at their bases. As they walked toward the large barn and the gathering crowd, Dean began to feel uncomfortably out of his element. It was like looking at the southern stars for the first time or watching water drain in the wrong direction. He suddenly felt—upended and off kilter. If he had to hazard a guess, he suspected that he hadn't been much of a people-person in his past. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic as he walked past so many staring eyes. Florabel was still bouncing against him, barely containing her energy and excitement.

"Lizzy!" she yelled and began literally crawling down Dean's back. He had to quickly reach behind him to ensure she didn't fall. A girl of a similar age waved back and started pulling on her mother's hand, dragging the woman over as the two children torpedoed toward one another. They finally met and clung to each other in a hopping embrace.

"We miss you so much at school!" Lizzy called out. "It ain't the same without you there."

Emma went to hug Lizzy's mother. "Pauline," she said. "It's so good to see you agin."

"Come meet Pally," Florabel sung out and pulled on her friend's hand until they stood before Dean. He knelt down and put out his hand. "This is Lizzy. I told you all about her, remember?"

"I sure do," he said. "Hiya Lizzy. Is this your farm?"

"Mmm hmm," she said, shyly shaking his hand. She giggled and whispered something in Florabel's ear. Florabel nodded and gossiped quietly back.

"Dean, this is Lizzy's mother, Pauline," Emma said, rescuing him from the young, tittering chickadees. He stood up. "Pauline and I went to school together."

Pauline Crawford looked from Dean to Emma, her eyes shining for her friend. "I'm so glad to meet you, Dean," she beamed warmly. "Welcome. You make good 'n sure Emma keeps a tight hold on you today, especially if Jane Coulter catches sight of you," she laughed.

"Huh?" he said, looking confused. "Who's she?"

Pauline laughed and looked at Emma sideways. "She's…"

"Desperate," Emma finished and the two women eyed each other and laughed.

Dean suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands, so he stuck them in his pockets, gripping Florabel's marble like a talisman. He glanced around awkwardly.

Pauline noticed his discomfort and laughed. "Oh, it'll be all right. You'll be able to weather the likes of Jane," she said, taking another look at the two of them. "Well, it was real nice meetin' you. I cain't tell you how much. I gotta git, they's so much to do for the dance later on. Jack an' me's been runnin' like chicken's with our heads cut off for days now." She went to take her daughter's hand. "Come on, Lizzy."

"Mama, I wanna stay with Florabel, cain't I stay?" she fussed.

Pauline looked to Emma. "We got her," Emma said with a nod. "She can stay with us for the rabbit drive. Why don't you take this," she said taking the basket from Dean and handing it to her friend. "It's for tonight. We'll watch out for Lizzy for a few hours." Pauline grabbed the basket and embraced her friend again.

"All right," Pauline said to the little girl. "You mind Emma and Dean, now, and don't run off nowheres."

"I'll be good, Mama," she promised. She and Florabel clutched each other and twirled in happiness.

After that, it was a constant stream of introductions—stranger after stranger, until Dean couldn't remember who was who. Even the Osteen brothers had come up and thumped him good naturedly, bragging to Emma about what a great pool player Dean was. His head was spinning from it all, and he felt extremely self-conscious. Every person they spoke to looked at him with such friendly curiosity, with such open fondness, that he didn't know what to say or what to do. His palms were sweaty and he had an overwhelming desire to just get away long enough to breathe. He'd been clapped on the back, hugged, pinched, prodded and poked by so many people in their enthusiasm over meeting a new member of their community; he didn't have a clue how to respond to such neighborly acceptance. He'd been so wrung by Sam's twisted rejection that he didn't quite believe he merited the treatment he was getting from these people. He wondered what they might really want or how they might end up hurting him if he were to trust them.

"You all right, Dean?" He felt Emma's hand on his back. She looked at him with kind concern. "You muddlin' through this OK?"

He looked down and smiled at her. "I'm fine," he said. "I don't reckon I spent much time with people in my past. This is all kind of new."

Emma reached up and rubbed some lipstick off his cheek, a parting gift from Old-lady Folkers and her wrinkly, dewlap of a double-chin. She thought Dean might be scarred for life. "You's doin' real good, Dean," she encouraged him. "Looks like they's gonna have a big turnout today. I heard someone say we might have close to five-hundred folks here." She gently patted his arm. "But, purty soon the drive will start an' then you'll have somethin' to think about 'sides all the people." Her smile dropped off her face as she focused on something behind Dean. "Oh dear," she said, looking worried. Dean turned to see what had upset her.

And just like that, his social anxiety melted away as he watched Slaid approach. Dean stiffened as the fury he'd set aside came boiling back. His hand went into his pocket, grasping the gun, wanting nothing more than to put a bullet in that monster's brain right there. He instinctively reached down for Florabel and pulled her close to him. She looked up, confused until she looked where Dean was glaring. She huddled close without a word.

"Big day, ya?" Slaid said as he walked up. Emma turned and smiled cautiously.

She nodded to him. "Looks like they have a mighty big group today with the wind as calm as it is," she said, making polite small talk.

"Our rabbit drive is going to be the biggest there ever was," Lizzy boasted. Florabel reached out for her friend, trying to get a grip on her hand, but Lizzy walked toward Slaid as he bent down to her.

"Is that right, little one?" he said, his eyes gleaming as they raked over her. He softly stroked the girl's long, black braids. "What a pretty, little thing you are," he said, all syrup and honey. Dean immediately took two strides, gripped Slaid's shirt and brought him up.

"Don't touch her," Dean said, his eyes glittering with hatred.

Emma placed a calming hand on Dean's arm while pushing against Slaid's chest. "None of that here, you two. I won't have it," she scolded. She pulled on Dean's arm, attempting to herd him and the children away.

Slaid backed off, his hands in the air as if he were trying to placate a wild animal. "Devil fighter, always causing trouble, ya?" He shrugged. A few other people caught wind of the altercation and gathered around, whispering. "Wants little girls all to himself, maybe?" he scoffed.

Dean's body began quaking with adrenaline. His vision tunneled and his focus narrowed on the man in front of him, to the exclusion of all else. All he could think about was getting his hands around the thing's neck. He was surprised to find Jeb suddenly holding him by the shoulders when he went to lunge for the pedophile.

"All right, there, son," Jeb said pulling Dean away. "Let's just go on and take a little walk, now."

Dean tried to protest but as Jeb shook him, he snapped out of his fury-induced dream state and could suddenly see everyone beginning to stare. Having seen his first glimpse of the farmhand since learning about what he'd done to Florabel, Dean's rage was boundless. But now was not the time to deal with Slaid. Just the same, Dean was seething with wrath and animosity as Jeb led him away. Emma followed quickly behind with the two girls. He eventually mastered himself enough to speak. "I'm fine, Jeb. Damn it, let me go," he said.

"You just need to cool off a moment, there, Dean. What got into you? Slaid's a simple fool, and a rude one at that, but he wasn't doin' nothin'," Jeb said. Dean looked at the old man, wondering how he'd react if he knew. He'd promised Florabel he wouldn't say anything, though, and for the moment, he'd stay true to his word. But these people were going to have to be told what the man had done. He couldn't protect Florabel with Emma and Jeb constantly fighting him. The weekend—he'd give her this weekend. Dean bent over and took several breaths. Emma came up and placed a hand on the back of his neck. He tried to wince away, but she wouldn't let him.

"You's all right, Dean," she said. "Slaid was just tryin' to be neighborly."

Dean let out a lungful of air. "Yeah, OK," he said bitterly through gritted teeth. He stood back up and tried to find the farmhand in the crowd, but he'd disappeared.

"Come on, Pally," Florabel took his hand. "Let's go line up for the drive. They's getting' everyone ready to go." She looked up at him, understanding what had set him off but trying to let him know that she was OK enough to go on. "Let's have some fun," she suggested, tugging at him pleadingly.

Dean looked down at her. "OK," he said finally. "Lead the way."

**O**

Despite spending most of the time watching Florabel and Lizzy as they clapped their hands and yelled gleefully, the jackrabbit drive was a truly surreal experience and not something he'd soon forget. Hundreds of people lined up, spaced themselves a few feet apart, and began walking through the dead scrub. They kicked up dust as they strode, striking spoons on pots, yelling loudly—some folks carried small drums that they beat as they walked. Most of the men, young and old alike, held clubs in their hands and used them to nudge the rabbits in the desired direction. Florabel squealed with delight when she saw her first jackrabbit. It bounded out of a knot of dead thistle and ran furiously ahead of the wall of humanity that was closing in. Soon one rabbit became two and then three. It wasn't long before the entire floor of the prairie seemed to be swarming with them. The jackrabbits scurried in and out of buffalo-wallows, frantically trying to find hiding spots. There were none. The rabbits hopped about insanely, chittering and fretting in terror.

The crowd walked about a mile out into the prairie and then began to sweep around, hemming in as many rabbits as possible. There had to be at least a couple thousand rabbits scurrying about. Several young boys with clubs ran ahead shepherding the animals back towards the Crawfords' farm.

Just after they'd made the turn, Dean noticed that Slaid had wormed his way near Emma and the girls. He held a club in his hand and was pounding it into the ground as he walked. Slaid made eye contact with Dean and smiled broadly. The farmhand looked at Florabel and Lizzy and edged a little closer, shouting curses to the rabbits as he went.

Dean began to do some herding of his own, coaxing Emma and the children away through the line of people, out of Slaid's reach. As soon as he'd get them settled in one spot, Slaid would show up again, club in hand, belting out guttural warnings to the rabbits. Rage rippled through Dean again. The man was deliberately harassing them—harassing _him_. He could see it in his eyes, a mirthful delight at pissing Dean off. Emma and the children were oblivious, so intent on the activities and the fun of the rabbit drive that they weren't even aware of Slaid's proximity. Florabel and Lizzy were happily running after stray rabbits that had literally hopped through their legs in a bid for survival beyond the reach of the clubs. Slaid gave Dean a wink and a wicked smile as he screamed out and pummeled the ground with the club. Dean had just about had enough of it and was going to take a swing at the fucker, when the crowd began to close in on the rabbits, creating a very tight run for them. Dean could see some netting and fencing up ahead that the rabbits were being driven toward. When he looked back over his shoulder to check on Slaid, he was gone again, lost in the crowd. Dean found Emma and Florabel and took each one by the hand in a firm, protective grip. They weren't paying much attention, though, beyond the mass of rabbits being prodded into the holding yard that had been erected behind the Crawfords' barn.

Within minutes the rabbits were penned, flying about, hopping on top of one another in a wild attempt to escape the fencing. A tall man with a megaphone addressed the crowd. "Now we're going to be gittin' these here fine critters on the trucks in just a few moments," he said. "So any folks who want to take the young kiddies back to the barn for some punch while we show these fine varmits a right-good send off, you best take them and skedaddle." Several parents took the hint and started guiding the younger children toward the barn.

"Come on, Florabel," Emma said. "Let's go git some punch." She took the girls by the hands in order to lead them away, when Slaid gave out a hoarse cry. Hopping the fence, he began gleefully clubbing a rabbit right in front of Florabel and Lizzy. There was a moment of confusion as other teen boys and young men, thinking it was time to do their job, also jumped the fence and began beating the rabbits to death. The girls started screaming as Slaid continued to club the rabbit long past the point of death. Dean scooped both of the girls up and ran to the barn. He could hear other children crying out, but they were soon drowned out by the piercing, cut-glass shrieks of the rabbits. Other parents also made running dashes for the barn with their young children, as the man with the megaphone tried in vain to get the boys to stop their premature slaughter.

Once they were safely out of earshot of the screeching rabbits, Dean turned to Emma. "I'm gonna kill him," he said through clenched teeth. Emma reached up to comfort Florabel as she sobbed into Dean's shirt.

"Come on, now, Florabel," Emma said soothingly. "All them rabbits is pests. You's old enough to know they cain't stay. An' they's gonna feed a lot of starvin' pigs, now. Don't fuss so hard." She pried Florabel gently away from Dean and set her on the ground. "You an' Lizzy go git yourselves some punch now. It'll be all right." She watched the two girls melodramatically hug each other and walk toward the punch-bowl to soothe their horror. "They'll be fine," she said, looking at Dean's incredulous face. "They's farm girls. They ain't too young to learn the difference between pets and food."

"Doesn't matter when you have an evil dick deliberately trying to frighten them," Dean said angrily.

"Slaid. He's so dumb I don't think he has nothin' under his hat but hair. My God, I don't know what he was a-thinkin'," she said, shaking her head.

Dean was fairly sure he knew exactly what Slaid was thinking. He seriously didn't know how he was going to make it through the night without throttling the fucker.

**O**

His head hurt and he was bone tired; the sleepless night spent watching for Slaid had finally caught up with him. His attempt to keep the square was a valiant one, but he'd flailed more than he'd actually danced. He'd stepped on Emma's foot, he didn't even know how many times, in his efforts to keep an eye on Florabel, but the little girl was happily dancing with Lizzy not far away. Despite the bruises he knew she must have, Emma was a trooper and kept encouraging him. Dean had not seen Slaid since the kerfuffle at the jackrabbit drive. He thought it might be too much to hope that perhaps some angry parents had tossed him out for his earlier barbarism.

"The other way, Dean," Emma laughed as he slammed right into her, having taken a wrong turn. He spun around and immediately ran into another poor woman. Finally, Emma just laughed and grabbed his hand, pulling him from the square entirely. "Let's take a breather," she said. "I don't know about you, but I'm so thirsty I cain't think straight," she led him over to the punch bowl and poured them both a cup.

"Why Emma Livingston, you didn't tell me that this sweet boy was yours!" came a familiar voice. Dean looked around and noticed it was the buxom woman from the store where he'd purchased Florabel's gifts the day before.

"Hello Jane," Emma said with a slight sigh. "Jane this is Dean. Dean, this is Jane Coulter."

"Oh my, we don't need no introductions, sweetheart. We already met, ain't that right, handsome?" She bounced on her hip and cooed, giving him a naughty laugh and a slap, as though they were sharing a private joke. Emma looked at Dean with confusion.

He smiled awkwardly and shrugged. "We met at the store yesterday when I was there," he admitted.

"Yes indeed," the woman said rather lasciviously. "And what a flirt this boy of yours is, I might add," she tittered. Dean opened his mouth in surprise and coughed out a lungful out air. He turned to Emma to deny it, but she just rolled her eyes, letting him know that she knew Jane was exaggerating.

"I cain't imagine Dean being anything but a perfect gentleman," Emma defended. "Course it ain't easy when folks is throwin' themselves at him," she snarked. Before Jane could do anything but gasp out her offense, Dean stiffened.

"Florabel." He interrupted the women's cat-fight. "I can't see her. She was right there." He began crossing the barn toward the far wall where the two little girls had been dancing. They were nowhere in sight.

"She cain't be far," Emma said, following on his heels. "Don't worry so, Dean." But Dean wasn't having it. He began calling loudly. His eyes darted in panicked sweeps of the room. The worry was so sharp and biting, he felt as though he'd been struck.

"Florabel!" he called again.

The little girl turned from the musician's platform where she and Lizzy had wandered and ran back to the adults. "We's right here!" she said.

Dean bent down and drew her in. "Don't run off like that," he said. "Stay where I can see you, OK?" He looked at her and silently communicated with her that he needed to make sure she stayed safe with Slaid around.

"I will, Pally. I'm sorry," she said. "I was just sayin' howdy to Papa's old friends." Emma looked at the two, slightly confused.

"All right," he said and grudgingly released her back into Lizzy's care.

Florabel turned and nodded to the fiddler who smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. He gathered the other musicians and began a slow ballad. All the squares broke up into couples dancing. Florabel assessed the situation and set to work immediately.

"You 'n Mama need to dance this one," she said, pushing them together. "It ain't even a square dance. You can just hold her tight and dance nice and slow," she said with a mischievous smile. "That a-way you won't step on her feet," she said.

"Don't be so sure," Dean laughed. He looked at Emma to see if she was game. "Want to risk it, Emma?" he asked.

"I think I can manage one more, Mr. Hetfield," she laughed. "I don't think I need steel-toed boots just yet." She placed her hand lightly on his scarred shoulder. He settled his hand on her waist and pulled her in ever so slightly.

Dean kept glancing at Florabel who was giggling and whispering with Lizzy as the two little girls watched them dance. Despite his vigilance, though, he couldn't help but be drawn toward Emma as she shyly glanced up at him. Her eyes were just as blue as her daughter's. They caught the reflection of the lanterns strung from the rafters, filling her pupils with a cluster of glistening sparks. He gazed at her pretty face, somewhat pared and pinched by drought and grief, but still beautiful. He admired the small patch of freckles on her nose and her smooth skin. His eyes moved down her face and lingered on her sinuous neck where her fluttering pulse gave away her nervous excitement. And there it was, he thought; this was Emma's own return to life. This was her moment of choice, her daring to hope again. He felt an overwhelming desire to kiss her, to just put everything aside and lose himself in her open warmth. He'd been so preoccupied for the past two months, first with his injury, then with Sam. Now that both of those intrusions were out of the way, now that Sam was no longer pulling at him—_and he wasn't_, Dean reminded himself—now that he had to worry only about Slaid, he was almost free to relax. Once he had taken care of Slaid, the first thing he intended to do was to spend more time really getting to know the woman who had literally brought him back from the brink of death. And he wanted to know her. He sincerely did. His head bent down toward hers, almost of its own volition, and he could see her responding in kind, softly tilting her head up towards his, when he suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder. It pulled him back to reality like a splash of cold water. He spun around to find that it was Slaid who'd been tapping.

Dean rigidly strove to keep his temper as he took a protective step in front of Emma. "What?" he spat out.

Slaid cleared his throat and nodded, indicating that he was trying to cut in. "Do you mind?" he said with feigned politeness.

Dean turned to Emma. Her eyes clearly relayed her unease and aversion. He turned back to Slaid. "You're kidding, right?" he seethed out. "I don't think so," he said, turning his back on the farmhand.

Slaid pressed, tapping his shoulder again. "Maybe you should let the lady decide," he said as he put his hand on Emma's sleeve.

"Get your goddamned hands off her," Dean hissed furiously. "She doesn't want to dance with you."

"You want to make a scene, Devil Fighter? Let everyone see what you really are?" he said, trying to play his hand calmly. His excitement got the better of him, though, and he yanked at Emma's arm, loudly tearing her sleeve and making her cry out in surprise and pain. Several nearby dancers gasped at the violence of it, but before anyone could pull Slaid off Emma's arm, Dean had him by the throat. He barreled through the scattering crowd, squeezing the farmhand, pushing him out the barn door and into the wall of a nearby shed.

Slaid squirmed, breathing like he'd just done a four-minute mile, his face turning a sickly whey color. "Don't you fucking move," Dean said as the farmhand strove to regain his normal bluster. Dean slammed him into the shed a second time and bent close, speaking low as people began to run up and watch the commotion. "I know what you are, you prick. I know what you did to Florabel. And I've seen your little shop of horrors under the barn, you miserable, sadistic fuck." Slaid smiled up at him, his fingers digging into Dean's face as he tried to fight him off. A third slam finally brought the man's hands to his sides, where they twitched and snapped with impotent aggression. "If you ever lay another finger on either of them, it'll be the last thing you ever do. Do you hear me?"

Slaid grinned. "So, you want the little whore for your own?" he guessed. He made a slight pout. "Of course you do. But you'll always know I fucked her first," he laughed quietly. "And, Mmm, the sounds she made—the screams. They were…"

Dean felt the satisfying crunch of Slaid's nose as it caved beneath his fist, a rope of blood whipping out and spattering the shed as Slaid's head snapped around. "You sick fuck!" he hissed. Several men began pulling the two apart, even as Dean fought to land another punch.

"Ho there, Dean," Dex Osteen called as he pulled Dean off. "Easy there, hero. You taught him a good lesson, let's let him live long enough to put it to good use, eh?" The young man clapped Dean on the back, trying to get him to stand down. Other boys came running forward, ripe for some action.

Charlie Haffner got Slaid on his feet and began pushing him away, getting more distance between the two rivals. "Move on, Slaid. Ain't no call to be rough with a woman, you damn fool. You got what was comin' to you, now git on out 'a here," he yelled angrily. Slaid sucked in several breaths and cupped his nose. When he saw that the crowd was firmly behind Dean, he shrugged.

"It was an accident. The stranger has always been against me. I've done nothing," Slaid contended.

"Like hell you haven't," Dex said. "Go on, now. The dance is over for you, tonight."

Slaid daubed at the blood running from his nose, flicking it from his fingers. "Devil-fighter has you all fooled," he warned. He looked at Florabel. "See you back home, little one," he said with a seedy smile and then laughed when Dean's lunge was stymied by the group of young men gathered around him. He made a flamboyant bow to the crowd and walked off.

Emma pushed her way through the crowd, her face twisted with embarrassment and worry. "Florabel," she turned to the child. "Go git our things. I think it's time we left."

"But Mama!" the child lamented loudly.

"Go on, now, Florabel. It's gittin' late and we have a big day tomorrow," she said more calmly. "Say goodbye to Lizzy, you mind me, now." The little girl trudged off to do as she was told.

The men were patting Dean and telling him they'd have done the same if they'd been close enough. Dean looked at Emma expecting the worst, but he saw gratitude in her eyes. He relaxed a little and began shaking the men off. "I'm good. I got it," he assured them.

Emma approached him cautiously. "Thank you, Mr. Hetfield," she said with a sparkle in her eye. She reached up and gave him a quick pat on his arm. "That was very chivalrous of you." The folks nearby breathed out a collective sigh and began giggling and egging them on.

"That weren't no proper 'thank-you,' Emma," laughed Pauline from behind her husband. Several people hooted and snickered in agreement. Florabel pushed her way in between the legs and skirts of the onlookers, lugging the basket. She stopped short when she saw Dean and Emma standing face to face with the crowd demanding a proper end to the night's excitement. Emma shook her head and smiled as she looked at Dean. She reached up and gave him quick peck on the cheek and a cautious hug that grew warmer as he returned it, grateful that she wasn't upset with him. That she supported him. The crowd erupted like confetti popped at midnight, showering them with sparkly whoops of approval.

Florabel's mouth opened in a perfect full-moon of stunned delight. She was sad to see the night end, but as she watched the two people she loved most in all the world embrace, she felt like singing and jumping for joy. Slaid was a monster, but he had done at least one good thing in his life—even if he didn't mean to. This was the perfect end to a perfect day.

**O**

_February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"What kind of spell?" Sam asked incredulously.

Bobby continued to hunt and peck on the keyboard. "A retrieval spell. It might just work, but it is going to take a whole lot of work and more than a little luck. We're going to need to deliberately provoke the ghosts into summoning the elemental. We have to hope they struggle against each other and create another doorway. Once the doorway is open we trap the elemental and hold it in place—perform the retrieval spell, then banish the elemental once we have Dean back. As for the spirits, well, we'll have to deal with them once this is all over. For now, we need them."

"And you an' what army is going to pull this off?" scoffed Ellen.

Bobby shrugged. "We need a couple people to hold off the spirits once the portal is open and another to perform the rituals. The rest is just us not gettin' dead. And we've all had our practice at that."

Sam fingered the amulet that was hanging around his neck. "When do we do this?"

"We're going to need some supplies," Bobby said. "We also need to get over to the site and make sure the damn fools stop their construction work. The foreman hasn't closed it down yet. We'll need you to go in and perform your OSHA magic and get them to stop until further notice. We want Dean back, but we also have to make sure these folks don't get hurt in the meantime."

"You feelin' up to this, sweetie?" Ellen asked when she saw Sam rise to his feet with a wince. He used his arm to support his ribs as he walked toward the door.

"I could be on life support and I'd be up for this. I'm not leaving Dean out there. I'm getting him back. Tonight. There is nothing else to discuss," he said flatly.

"Yeah, OK, that was probably one of my dumber questions," admitted Ellen.

"All right," Bobby said as he headed for the door. "Let's get this thing done. Time's a wastin'."

**O**

_April 13, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Lizzy Crawford sat glumly on the lip of the stage and watched the fiddlers play. People had started to take their leave and the dance floor was beginning to thin out. It wasn't near as much fun without Florabel there. The little girl sighed and hopped off the riser. Running over to her mother who was deep in conversation with some other ladies, Lizzy tugged at the woman's dress.

"Mama, I'm bored," she said.

Pauline looked down and caressed her daughter's hair. "Ain't the same without Florabel, huh?" She knew her daughter well.

"There ain't nothin' to do," the child said with a cavernous yawn.

"Well for one thing, it's way past your bedtime," she hugged her daughter to her. "Why don't you go on up to the house and git yourself ready for bed, and I'll be along in few minutes to tuck you in."

"But I ain't even the least bit tired," Lizzy protested, blinking sleepily.

"Looks to me like either your lips is fibbin' or your eyes is. I'm thinkin' it's your lips," the woman said with a smile. "You go on and git to bed. Mama will be there in just a few minutes. I just want to see a few more folks off. It's been a big day and we's all tuckered, so I won't be long." She brushed a kiss against her child's nose and patted her bottom, sending her on her way.

"Night Mama," Lizzy said as she skipped off toward the farmhouse. It had been one of the best nights she could remember. Getting to spend time with Florabel and meeting her new papa had been so much fun. The last time they'd seen each other had been at little Henry's funeral. It was nice to see her friend smile and laugh again. Maybe Florabel's new papa would let her come back to school soon.

She was humming along to the tune the band was playing in the distance when she reached the backdoor of the quiet farmhouse. Just as she entered the mudroom, a dark figure loomed up behind her and pulled her back, slithering a hand over her mouth and holding her tighter than she'd ever been held before. Terrified, she looked up and saw Slaid smile at her. His face was swollen and bloody, his eyes lurid and wet. She screamed under his hand and bit at him, struggling wildly. She felt her teeth sink into flesh, but the farmhand merely grunted, almost as if the bite had provided him pleasure. He quickly slunk off into the night with her, moving out onto the open prairie. He didn't stop until they were well beyond any threat of intrusion or interruption.

"What a beautiful child," he whispered softly in her ear. "Such pretty dark, hair." He pressed his lips against her shivering cheek and tucked her mercilessly into his arms. "Florabel loves you so," he husked out, squeezing her so tight that the child bleated helplessly beneath his hand as it pinched off her air supply.

After several minutes he relaxed a little, still rocking the child even though she'd long since ceased her struggles. He'd been too timid to go directly after the Devil-fighter. There'd never been a good opportunity with the women and the old man constantly around him. He'd wasted enough time watching Dean steal his family away from him. He'd surely earned the Hala's blessing, now. His fingers pulsed with a sudden electric charge, crackling and sparking with energy. Exquisite blue veins and deltas of light began running up and down his arms. He felt _powerful_…_unstoppable_. He focused on the Hala and bent his will toward it, demanding action. And far, far away, hundreds of miles to the north, the wandering Hala manifested itself, accepting the offering and answering the call. It responded by kicking up a few grains of dust as it rushed toward its master.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	12. Better World AComin'

_**A/N: As with every chapter, my undying gratitude goes out first and foremost to my amazing betas: Numpty, Beckydaspatz and NongPradu. They have buffed and polished these pages over and over again. Any remaining errors are my doing completely and are probably the result of my incessant tinkering even after they've performed their beta-magic!**_

_**A/N: Warning for language and adult themes. See Chapter 1 for full disclaimers. **_

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 12: Better World A-Comin'**

**O**

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Oh Mama," Florabel gasped. "You's so beautiful!"

Emma smiled with meek delight. Florabel watched from the bed as her mama sat at the dresser getting ready for their big day. Emma's dark-golden hair was spilling down her back in thick waves as she brushed it out.

"I ain't never seen your cheeks so shiny before," Florabel declared. "You look happy, Mama."

Emma pumped a bottle of perfume once and leaned into the spray. "C'mere baby girl," she said with a smile. She squeezed it once more in Florabel's direction and watched the mist fall onto her smiling child. "There, we both smell like roses." She put the bottle of precious perfume back on the dresser and picked up the seldom used tube of lipstick. She applied it lightly to her lips and rubbed just a little on her cheeks, smiling at the results.

Florabel hopped off the bed and leaned against her, wistful and awestruck. "You look just like a movie-star, Mama." The two of them touched foreheads and their smiles met in a kiss. Emma leaned back and spread the lipstick she'd shared with her daughter lightly over the little girl's lips. The two of them looked in the mirror, striking movie-star poses and giggling like school girls.

"Now we both do," Emma said. She took her time plaiting her hair into a loose psyche's knot. "There," she said looking herself over. She didn't just feel alive, she looked it. It felt like years since she'd seen optimism smiling back at her from the mirror.

"Pally won't be able to look at nothin' but your face all day," Florabel said with a gasp of pride.

Emma laughed. "Mmm, I think there will be other things taking his attention," she said mysteriously. "Now, c'mere Birthday-girl." Emma knelt by her hope-chest, hinges creaking as she opened it, and pulled out the most beautiful thing that Florabel had ever seen in her life.

"This is my present to you, Florabel. I hope you like it," Emma said as she held it up for her daughter to see.

Like it? Florabel's jaw couldn't form proper words. Her hand reached out and pet the white dress, lace edging the embroidered collar, wide pleats falling from both the back and front shoulders with mother-of-pearl buttons running down the front. She was sure it was regal enough for a fairy queen. "Mama!" was all she could say for a few minutes as she ogled the dress that she could hardly comprehend was hers. "How?" she said finally.

"Do you like it?" Emma asked even though she could see the answer written all over her daughter's face. "I thought you needed to have something pretty for special days," she said as she unhooked her daughter's overalls and readied the dress to go over her head.

"Wherever did you git it, Mama?" Florabel said, astounded. Only rich people had such fine things. She'd never seen any girl in town have anything so beautiful.

"I made it from my wedding-dress," Emma said. "It weren't doin' nobody any good sitting in my hope-chest," she explained. She put the dress over Florabel's head and situated it on her. "My goodness, you look like a princess," she said. "Here," she continued, reaching for a pair of new socks with lace sewn at the ends. "And I polished your shoes for you last night. You can wear this to the picnic."

Florabel looked at herself in the mirror, tears rimming her eyes. "I cain't thank you proper Mama. There ain't words." Emma bent down and hugged her daughter.

"Don't need no words, baby girl. You's welcome, my love." she said, drawing Florabel to her and feeling the slight pull of her daughter's embrace. Emma released her only when she started losing her motherly composure. She swallowed the lump of love in her throat and smoothed her hand over the child's shining cheeks. Patting the seat, she sat Florabel down and began unbraiding her hair. "Let's git you all fixed up. Your Pally ain't gonna know what to do with hisself when he sees you," she said with a wink.

Florabel thought a moment, watching her mama in the mirror. "Did you ever think we was gonna be happy agin?" she asked quietly.

Emma looked at her daughter and straightened the lace collar of her new dress. She shook her head. "I didn't," she confessed as she began brushing Florabel's waist-length hair.

"Me neither," she said as she stared at herself in the mirror. "I sure am glad we was wrong."

**O**

Dean looked at his bruised knuckles, flexing his fist a few times to ease the stiffness. He was pretty sure nothing was broken. Hurt like a bitch, though. He ticked off his internal to-do list, making sure that Florabel's chores were done for her. Chickens fed, eggs collected—check. Water from well, cow milked—check. Other than the girls' bedrooms, he'd dusted the whole house during his sleepless night. He could do Florabel's room, but Emma's was still off limits since she and Florabel were having some kind of mother/daughter bonding experience in there. He'd heard them giggling earlier and got the hell out of there as quick as he could. He'd needed to grab Florabel's presents from the barn anyway.

He stretched his neck. Keeping watch for Slaid two nights in a row had left him numb, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep that up. He was going to have to sleep sometime. It didn't appear that Slaid had come back, but Dean assumed it was too much to hope that he never would. He was fairly certain that even after last night, it was going to take considerable effort to convince Emma to turn the farmhand out entirely—unless he told her what he'd done to Florabel. She'd be shattered once she found out the truth, but he didn't know if he had the right to keep it from her, either. He sighed. He'd have to think about it all after the weekend. Right now, his brain was too exhausted to work it all through. His concentration was shot. Maybe he could catch a short nap this afternoon. He squinted at the sun, guessing that it wasn't quite mid-morning yet.

The sun. It shone down from a piercing blue sky—the first such day that Dean ever truly recalled seeing. There were vague flashes of other days in other times, but he didn't remember them so much as simply observe disconnected visuals of them in his brain. But this day? This was something special. The sunlight had warmth to it, and the day promised to nudge 80 degrees when all was said and done. The wind had dropped to a mere purr. He looked up at the windmill, barely cranking in the soft breeze.

Dean watched it slowly rotate and wondered if perhaps he and Jeb could build a second one. All it took to get to the ground water was a well and a windmill. Maybe…maybe it would be possible to use one to irrigate a field or two. It would be a huge undertaking, but he had the time, now. There wasn't anything holding him back, nothing preventing him from staying. More than that, though, he was tired of feeling alienated and alone. He wasn't sure if that was due to Sam's betrayal or his inability to remember his past. Perhaps he'd always felt that way and isolation had been the tenet upon which his life had always been lived. There was no way to know for sure. In any case, he didn't want to be cut off from life anymore. He _wanted_ to be here—wanted roots. He wanted to make plans for the future, and giving the girls a crop would be a good start.

They all needed better food. They couldn't subsist solely on jackrabbits for much longer. Dean had noticed how small Florabel had looked compared to the other children at the dance. He was worried about her. Even Lizzy had several inches and at least fifteen pounds on her, and they were the same age. Taking care of Emma and Florabel was a responsibility that he welcomed, and one that he wanted to excel at above everything else. He walked past the windmill and into the barn.

Retrieving Florabel's gifts from the loft, he quickly climbed back down the ladder. The brown bag he'd carried them home in would have to serve as wrapping paper. Maybe Emma would have something better. As he headed back out, his eye caught the trapdoor of the root cellar. He pulled out the gun and opened the door just to make sure that Slaid wasn't skulking in there. He walked down a few rungs of the ladder. The gun in his hand felt comfortable, like it belonged there, and he swept it around lithely, effortlessly, daring Slaid to be there, seeking him out in every shadowy corner. The room was dark and empty, but just as noisome and foul as before. A sound from above startled him even as he gagged again.

"Dean? You in here, son?" Jeb's voice called. _Fuck._ Dean looked at the gun and weighed it in his hands. Disturbed and confused by how much he enjoyed holding it. He quickly pocketed it and jogged up the ladder. Jeb turned just in time to see him surface. "There you are. What're you doin' down there? They sent me to look for you."

Dean waved the bag as evidence, quickly closing the trapdoor. "Just grabbing Florabel's presents," he said sheepishly as he made his way quickly toward the barn door.

"The girls is almost ready. I borrowed a camera from Roy Atterbury. He owns the _Boise City News_ and plays a mean saxophone. Been a good friend for years. Told me if'n I brought it back today he'd git the pictures developed straight away. Thought it would be a good present for Florabel to have her picture took on her Birthday. C'mon. They's waitin'."

"Let's go, then," Dean said as he matched strides with the old man.

"So, I hear you was quite the do-right last night," Jeb grinned. "I was out back with Doc Dawson and the other old timers rollin' reefer cigarettes and missed all the fun," he said. "You think Slaid will dare show his face back here?"

Dean stopped and pulled Jeb's shirt sleeve. "That reminds me, Jeb. Listen," he looked a little guilty. "I was worried about Slaid coming back and causing trouble for the girls last night. I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed your gun—just for protection," he added when he saw Jeb's eyes widen.

"I don't think you'll be needin' that, Dean," he said cautiously.

"I know. I just felt better having it with the girls in the house and Slaid as hot and pissed as he was. I ain't worried for myself. I just wanted to make sure they were safe," he said.

Jeb looked a little dubious, but he shrugged. "Just don't be pointin' it at no one, not even Slaid, Dean. He wouldn't really hurt the girls."

"Tell that to Emma," Dean reminded him.

The older man ran his hand through his hair. "Yeah, I hear you," he hesitated. "Just be careful, Dean."

"I will," he said. He heard the screen door creak open and watched Emma and Florabel emerge from the house. "C'mon. Let's go take Florabel's picture."

The two men jogged up to the house. Both of them stopped short. "Land sakes," Jeb whistled. "Look at the two of you! First they's this wing-dinger of a day and now it just got a whole lot brighter. You're both all sparkles and fairy dust!"

Florabel swayed shyly. Her white dress came down to her knees, lace frills everywhere, pearly buttons and small flowers embroidered on the collars. Dean knew that Emma had been working on it every night for weeks. The little girl's gold hair cascaded down her back and was collected in a big, floppy bow high on her head. Even her socks had lace on the edges. Emma looked no less finished. Her fair hair was loosely braided and pinned in the back, her natural, soft curls kissing her neck. Her dress looked older, but no less ornate, a pale peach-pink net dress with embroidered flowers and leaves that dripped in layers down to her mid-calf.

But it wasn't their lace dresses, giant bows or shiny hair that struck Dean. It was the sunshine hitting their glowing faces. It was the way they looked at him with their expectant, shy smiles. Dean could barely speak past the lump in his throat. "You two are the prettiest things I've ever seen in my life," he said, and he meant it.

Florabel hopped down a few stairs and jumped into his arms. "But you ain't seen a lot that you remember," she teased.

"I wouldn't forget seeing something so beautiful, that's a fact," he said. "So I've just never seen it," he contended. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He caught Emma's eye as she descended the stairs. She looked happier than he'd ever seen her. He had to fight his inclination to reach out to her and pull her in, too. "You both look gorgeous," he said as he set Florabel on the ground.

"All right," Jeb blustered. "Let's git a picture of this momentous occasion." Jeb situated the tripod where he wanted it. "Florabel, you and your mama stand right in front of the house, now." Dean moved back behind the camera with Jeb and watched him set up the shot.

"Pally needs to be in it, too!" Florabel demanded.

"No, no," Dean waved her off. "This needs to be with you 'n your mama," he said, but the two women wouldn't hear of it. They beckoned him over.

"Come on, Dean. You don't want to upset the Birthday girl," Emma said with a laugh, pulling out her trump card.

"Ugh. I ain't wearin' anything but dirty overalls," he said. Florabel ran up and began dragging him toward the porch.

"We don't care, Pally. You's family. I want our pictures tooken together," Florabel said. The three of them huddled around, Dean with one arm around Emma's waist and the other on Florabel's shoulder as she stood in front of the adults.

"You all look mighty handsome," Jeb said. "Now say 'cheese' and hold it!" He took the photo and clapped his hands. "There! Now I'll git this over to Roy and when I git back tonight it should be all done."

"Ain't you comin' on our picnic, Old Jeb?" Florabel asked as she ran up to look at the camera.

"Naw, I reckon I'll let you three have a day to yourselfs. I'm headin' off to church and then Hazel Johnson asked me to Palm Sunday dinner," he said with a cheeky grin.

"Dinner with a lady? Jeb, you sly dog," Dean laughed as he thumped the older man's arm.

Jeb threw his head back and cackled. "You ain't the only one who has a way with the ladies," he said thumping his chest. "I do believe that all these bright smiles is contagious. And on a day like this, you cain't do nothin' but expect the best. Things is definitely lookin' up!"

**O**

_February 12, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Sam knocked on the trailer door. "Gerry, it's Sam Ulrich. I need to talk to you a moment."

Gerry opened the door and looked Sam up and down. "Good," he said, stepping back so that Sam could enter. "I need to talk to you, too."

Gerry led Sam over to his desk and offered him a seat. The contractor swung around and sat behind his desk. "So, Mr. Ulrich, what can I do for you?" he said giving Sam a stiff nod.

Sam shifted in his chair. "I've talked to my superiors. And I've been given instructions to close down the site until we finish our investigation."

"Is that a fact?" Gerry drawled, unconcerned. "And where's the 'we'? Your partner still ain't showed up?"

Sam twitched and fiddled with the amulet. "Um, not yet, but headquarters will be sending down some other agents, soon. I'll need you to close down until we're finished."

"I see," Gerry said. "So, I take it you'll be wanting this back?" he said as he reached down and slammed the sawed-off on his desk. "You left this last time you was here," he puffed. Sam looked at the man, stunned into silence. "I thought it mighty odd that OSHA investigators would carry weapons. So, when we found this in the mess you boys left behind, I decided to give them a call this morning." Sam swallowed. "An' don't it just beat all, but they never heard of Sam Ulrich or Dean Hetfield."

Sam sat up. "I can explain," he said.

"Son, does it look like I just fell off the turnip-truck, to you? You think just because we're a small community that we're hayseed idiots, too? So what kind of scam are you running?" Gerry asked. He squinted at Sam as he stood up and folded his arms.

"Just…just hear me out," Sam pled. "I know it sounds bad, but you've got to believe me. My brother and I came here to try and help you."

"Your _brother_? So the other 'agent' is your brother?" Gerry scoffed. "Well that explains some of it."

"He is." Sam confirmed, trying to find the right angle to ease the tension in the room and get the contractor on his side. "And he's missing. We were investigating the activity at the site and something happened. Gerry, I'm not trying to scam you. But you have a dangerous situation here, and until we figure it out, no one is safe."

"Investigating _activity_? What the hell do you mean by that?" he said.

Sam stood up, stammered a moment and looked the contractor in the eye, hoping to hell that the truth would work. "Gerry, you have a serious problem. You've got a couple of ghosts that are going to keep hurting people if …." Gerry choked on his own incredulity.

"You kidding me, boy? A ghost? Jesus Christ, you spent too much time with Matt didn't ya?" Gerry snorted.

"It's true," Sam said passionately. "I know how it sounds, but you've got to believe me. We came here because my brother and I deal with this kind of thing regularly. I'm telling you, Gerry, if you don't shut this construction down other people could get hurt or killed."

"Oh son, you need to sell this shit to the SciFi Channel, not me," Gerry laughed derisively. "They might buy it. Add in a few man-eating ants, and they'll be sure to snatch it right up. That way you wouldn't have to try and scam innocent folks." Gerry gave Sam an acid look. "We done you and your brother nothing but good turns, and this is how you treat us? If this is how things work in the big cities, then I'm glad I ain't a part of one. We may be simple here, but we ain't thievin', scammin', looney-toon dipshit assholes." Gerry took the gun and removed the shells. "Now you get your ass off of my site. If I see you around here again, I'm callin' the Sheriff."

"Gerry, listen to me, please," Sam protested, but he already knew it was futile. Years of experience told Sam that Gerry had made up his mind and wasn't going to be swayed. The young hunter caught the unloaded gun that Gerry tossed to him.

"I've heard more 'n enough, son. You go pull your brother out of whatever hole he's lurkin' in and you get yourselves out of our town. I don't want to see you around here again, we clear?" Gerry went and opened the trailer door, motioning for him to leave.

Sam lingered briefly at the doorway, trying to think of some other avenue or tactic that would make a difference. But one final look at Gerry's face told Sam that it was over. He and the other hunters would just have to find a way around the workers. Sam finally sighed and just nodded as he left.

"Freaks!" Gerry spat out as a parting shot as he slammed the trailer door.

Sam sighed. That went well.

**O**

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"What is this place?" Dean asked. They'd walked about a mile north of the house and settled next to a trench or old, dry creek bed. The sun was warm enough to make him almost sorry he wore his union-suit. He could feel a trickle of sweat slide down his back. The sunshine was dazzling, hitting the silica in the dust, making the ground glitter lightly here and there. However, the contrast between the brilliant sky and the vapid landscape, Technicolor vs. monochrome, bewildered Dean's sleepy brain. The clashing union gave him a vague sense of vertigo. He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to focus.

Emma looked around. "I used to come here as a girl," she said, her face coursing with memories. "But, the creek only ever ran part of the year, even back then. There ain't been so much as a trickle at all in the past four or five years. Used to flow into the Cimarron River north a ways. I'd always come here and hunt lizards and cool off in the summer." She spread a blanket on the ground. "Maybe one day it'll run agin. If'n we could only git some rain." She opened the basket and surprised them with fried chicken. "I wish you both could'a seen this place the way it was back then. It don't look like the same world, even."

"It's still a good place for a picnic," Florabel jumped on her knees and smelled the food. Emma carefully pulled out the Birthday cake she made. Florabel's eyes went feral. "Mama! A cake! Oh boy!" she clapped her hands.

"That ain't all," Dean said. "I got you a little something," he said, pulling out the bag. He looked inside and pulled out the striped bags of candy. "One for each of you," he said with a smile. Florabel's high-pitched squeal made his tired head hurt, but he laughed anyway. Even Emma's eyes widened in surprise as he handed her a bag of her own.

"Pally! Holy moley! Candy! This is the best day ever. Ever, ever, ever, ever, _EVER_!" she chanted. She dove her hand into the bag, but Emma stopped her.

"Lunch first, baby girl," she said with a laugh. "Then you can have one piece of candy. That a-way you can have some each day and it will be more special." Florabel looked mournfully into the bag of chocolates. She didn't protest, though.

"And…" Dean went on. "I also got you this," he handed her the bag. "Sorry. I didn't have any proper wrappers." He squished the bag around the small kit to give it a little more mass. It still pretty much looked like a big, brown blob, though. Not that Florabel cared in the slightest.

Florabel held the gift in her hands, huffing and puffing frantically. "Oh boy!" She opened it up and pulled out the small satchel. She studied it with curious excitement, trying to figure out what it was.

Dean laughed. "It's a doctor's kit," he explained. He opened it up and pulled out the stethoscope and thermometer. "See? Now you can practice, so when you go to medical school you'll be leaps ahead of everyone else," he said.

Florabel looked at him. "You think I can? Even though only boys is doctors?"

"Who says that?" Dean scoffed.

"Old Jeb says that there ain't no such thing as a girl doctor." Florabel said.

"Well it ain't against the law, is it?" Dean said.

"I don't think so," Florabel admitted.

"Well then, you can go be a doctor if that's what you want," he assured her. "Don't let folks tell you otherwise." He looked into the bag. "Oh, and I forgot these," he said pulling a netted bag of marbles out. "Now we can have double matches," he said.

Florabel's face crumbled with raw emotion. She threw herself into his arms and held on for dear life. "I love you, Pally," she said. "I cain't believe it. Thank you so much." Emma patted her back and looked at Dean. Their eyes locked and Emma's were glistening with tears. "I ain't never been so happy, ever," Florabel said.

Dean succumbed to the hug and held her tight. "Me neither, Florabel," he said.

Emma cleared her throat. "All right you two. Break it up," she scolded in jest. "Lunch ain't gonna eat itself."

After lunch, Florabel insisted that Dean lay down for his first official check-up. Between the warmth of the sun, the gentle breeze, the food, sweets and pure exhaustion, Dean fell fast asleep. The little girl had spent so long examining him, listening to his heart and checking his temperature that his eyes simply closed on their own. He woke up when Florabel pried his eyelid open.

"You cain't sleep on my Birthday, Pally!" her big lips said to his eyeball. "You was startin' to snore!"

"Ugh," he said as he sat up and scratched his head. "I'm blaming the candy and cake," he said jokingly, but inside he was aching to turn over and go back to sleep. His body was beyond exhausted. He shoved it aside, though and got up when Florabel begged him and Emma to explore the dry creek-bed with her.

It was mid afternoon when Emma declared it time to walk back to the house. Florabel was not ready for the day to be over, yet. "Mama, cain't I stay out here for a little while longer. I ain't never seen the sun so big before." She looked at the two adults and raised an authoritative forefinger. "Besides, you 'n Pally should go on back to the house and have a good talk an' be together. Ain't that right, Pally? Don't you want to give me the present I want the most?" she said with an intrepid nod.

"Florabel…" he began.

Emma was folding up the blanket and packing everything into her basket. "What's all this," she said. "You two keepin' secrets?" she said with a laugh.

"No Mama," Florabel said. "I just thought you two ain't spent much time together. Me an' Pally play marbles all the time. You know," she said innocently. "I think it's time you two talked." She looked at her feet and swayed.

"Mmm hmm," Emma said suspiciously. She looked at the sun and considered. She pointed to the sky. "When the sun gits there, you come on back to the house," she cautioned. "And don't you dare git that dress dirty," she said emphatically.

"I won't, Mama," she promised. She ran up to Dean and motioned for him to bend down so she could whisper in his ear. "She likes you, Pally. Don't be scared! She won't be mad if you kiss her," she advised him. Dean shook his head and poked her in the nose.

"More secrets?" Emma huffed good naturedly. "I feel left out!"

"You have a silly daughter," Dean said as he grabbed the basket from Emma. He looked at Florabel. "Don't stay out long," he said.

Dean watched Florabel cross her fingers on both her hands and hold them to her face in a child's prayer as they walked away. He couldn't help but chuckle at her. Emma pulled out her bag of candy and offered Dean a piece, taking one for herself as well.

"I thought you told Florabel to make hers last," he laughed. Emma giggled and shrugged.

"Are you kidding me? I've wanted to put my head in this bag the entire time," she snickered. "I ain't had candy in years," she said. "Thank you for making the day so special for Florabel. And for me. Times has been so hard that I forgot what it was like."

"Like what was like?" he asked.

She looked at him and tilted her face to the sun. "Livin'," she said.

Dean thought a moment as they walked. "I'm sorry things have been so hard for you two," he said. "This land has definitely been raked over the coals."

She nodded and swallowed her candy, folding the bag to save the rest. "I wish you could 'a seen this land before all this," she said gesturing to the landscape. "You know, I was born right in that house," she said pointing over to the farmhouse in the distance. "Born right in the room you sleep in, in fact. My mama died the night I was born, and Papa? Well, he never remarried. I guess the farm became his wife, his passion. And he was good at it, too. This farm grew wheat and barley. So much grain that we was swimmin' in it. And, oh, the fields, Dean! When papa turned that soil, it looked just like chocolate," she said, shaking her striped bag. "And then he'd plant his seeds. You should 'a seen the fields of the blowin', billowin' wheat. It was like lookin' at a golden lake the way it rippled and waved in the wind. Then there was green prairie grass and flowers everywhere. I used to make daisy-chains and wear them in my hair," she laughed at the memory, but then sobered suddenly. "It ain't right that Florabel cain't do that. She's missin' out on so much. I don't know as she's ever seen daisies for real," she sighed. "Anyway, my papa built this farm up to be something we was so proud of. He hired several farmhands and bought tractors and threshers. And cattle and _horses_. My god, I loved the horses. When I was a young teen I would ride and ride."

"It sounds amazing," Dean said.

She smiled wistfully and looked at the land, not seeing what was really there, lost in her memories, silently watching the waist-tall wheat dance in the wind. She shook herself loose. "It was." She assured him. She noticed a bare-limbed tree, pale roots still tortuously groping out like talons clinging to the earth. She walked up to it, pointing. "Now look at that," she said. "See that crow's nest in that dead tree? It's entirely made of barbed wire."

They stopped and gaped at the mass of tangled wire making a large nest in the dead branches. "There ain't no vegetation for the birds to use no more, so they make do." Her eyes faded and they walked in silence for a bit. Dean could sense her pensiveness. He touched her arm and held it there a moment. She looked at him and smiled.

They arrived back at the farm and wandered around as Emma told him stories from her childhood. They wound up in the barn and climbed the ladder into the hayloft. Dean set down the basket and package with Florabel's gifts in it. Emma sat on a bale of hay and stretched, looking at the newly finished work. "Then after Red and I got married, Papa was dead set on wiring the house for electricity. We was plannin' on doin' that right about the time the market crashed in '29. We wasn't scared at first, because we didn't have no stocks. It was the city folks who was jumpin' out of buildings, not us. We didn't think it meant anything for the folks around here. But then the following harvest we only sold our crop for a fraction of what we'd sold it for the year before. Papa, he didn't rightly know what to make of it. All that work and he didn't make half of what it was worth. But he weren't broken over it. Not yet. He figured we'd just make it up the next year. He tore up more land and planted double crops of wheat and barley, figuring that since it would only net half, that if he planted double and worked double we'd come out all right. Problem was, everyone else was thinkin' the same thing. So the prairies got tore up more and more from folks tryin' to just stay afloat. The next year the crops sold for even less. The crops started to rot in barns and silos. We couldn't give the stuff away. Fact is, we is still eatin' that wheat to this very day. We trade folks some of the wheat for cornmeal, beans and a little coffee, just to have a change, but we been eatin' that crop for years now. Dunno what we'd do without it." She picked a piece of hay out of her hair and twirled it in her fingers.

"So you never got your electricity?" Dean asked. Emma looked up, startled. She'd been so lost in her thoughts.

"Mmm? No," she said. "Papa started sellin' stuff to pay the banks for the farm equipment and taxes on the farm. Thank god the farm itself was ours. It was homesteaded by my grandpa, so we don't owe no bank for it. But we still owed a lot on the equipment. And then in '31 it just stopped raining. Papa fell ill and died of worry, I reckon. Doc Dawson says he had an angina and he just faded. But I got to wonder what gave it to him. He was healthy until the farm started to fall apart." She shook her head sadly.

"When the rains didn't come, people stopped tryin' to plant the crops, and all that land, millions an' millions of acres that had been tore up in those years after the crash to try and make ends meet, it all just laid bare, and those winds that always blowed so fierce came like always and kicked up the land and carried it away. Weren't no grass or crops tetherin' it down. Ain't no tellin' where it all got to. Newspapers say that some of the dusters reached as far off as Chicago and New York City. The whole thing became a big rollin' mess. Weren't no means to feed the cows or horses. Weren't no hay left. The horses was sold to pay taxes a few years back. We hung onto the cattle as long as we could, but they was starvin' to death. The government finally come around and bought 'em just to shoot 'em dead. But at least now I got enough to pay taxes for a year or two. Ain't no tellin' how long it will take to ever set things right, even after it starts raining agin. Even if it were to start rainin' today, ain't no way to put a crop in the ground except for an old rusty plow. Ain't even got a horse to pull it." She closed her eyes, shielding them from the gravity of their hopeless situation. She opened them again, and there was defiance there. "But folks is tryin' to hold out, makin' do the best they can. Those who cain't, most usually head west an' try to find work in California. Though, we hear tell that things ain't any better there. Ain't enough jobs to go around. Folks who live there is tryin' to make laws that says you cain't hire folks from Oklahoma and Kansas. They don't want us there."

"Jesus," said Dean.

Her eyes blazed with a weary fury. "Things is bad. I try to remember what it was like. I try to think of the golden fields and believe those days will come agin, but right now we's eatin' dust three times a day. I sleep with it every night, I wake up with it between my teeth. It's in my water and invades my dreams. I hate it so much I could scream. I hate the wind. I hate that Red and Henry died for no damn good reason." She stopped herself and blinked, startled at her own outburst. "I'm sorry, Dean. I shouldn't 'a said all that. I git tired of fightin' sometimes. I don't mean to seem like a surly child. I shouldn't be so weak."

"Emma, you don't need to apologize. I can't imagine how hard it's been with everything you've been through. You ain't weak. I think you're incredibly strong to have gotten though the way you have."

She looked embarrassed that she'd unleashed herself briefly. Her face masked itself and she smiled, brushing her fingers in the air and stretching her back, her memories scattering like dandelion seeds in the wind. "And what about you, Dean? You think you's gonna be able to find your friend, Sam?" she asked.

Dean looked at her and shut his own inner doors just a tad. He shrugged. "I don't think so," he said sadly.

"You shouldn't give up hope. It ain't been that long, Dean. I bet if'n you give it time enough you'll remember things better, and then you can go find him, maybe?" she offered. It wasn't what she wanted for herself or for Florabel, but she felt compelled to give him an out if he needed one.

Dean got up and joined her on the hay bale, close enough that their shoulders touched. "I remember enough, now. I don't know, Em. I'm thinkin' maybe I wasn't a good person before I got hurt."

"What utter nonsense," she chided.

"No," he said. "I mean it. I don't remember things the way other people do, but I know that Sam was my brother," he confided with a sigh. Emma looked at him in surprise.

"Your brother? When did you remember that?" she asked, turning on the hay bale to look him in the eye.

"The other day," he said.

"When you was so upset?" Emma asked, her voice filled with compassion.

Dean nodded. "But I saw other things, too. Things that make me think I lived a dark, bad life. Every flash I ever get is violent and twisted, Emma. And the only thing that ever made any sense at all was Sam. I dunno, it was weird. I felt him so strongly. So bonded and attached. And then I saw…" he faltered, looking at his hands with a sigh.

"Saw what, Dean?" she asked, moving closer in her concern.

Dean shrugged and rubbed his eyes. He was so fucking tired. Too tired and too broken to hold back. His eyes met hers and then darted away quickly. He cleared his throat. "I saw him shoot me," he said, tapping his scar. "Sam's the one who did it. I don't know why, but I saw in his eyes how much he enjoyed it."

"My God," Emma said. "Dean…" she began, putting her hand on his back and rubbing a slow circle.

"So, I don't want to remember. I don't want to know who I was. I don't want find out that I done so much wrong that he'd have reason to do that. I don't want to be the person that I think I must 'a been. I don't want that life, Emma." He dropped his head in his hands.

Emma shook her head in confusion but then gave him a penetrating glance. "I don't know what you saw, but I'm thinkin' you ain't seein' the whole picture. I ain't bright, Dean. I never even finished high school. I married Red in my senior year and never went back. But I know a few things, and I know you's a good man. I know whatever you done you must 'a done because there weren't no other choice or because you had a good reason. You cain't remember it right now because your fever mixed things up, but I just won't never believe that you done anything to deserve gittin' shot. It don't make sense that your brother would hurt you, but maybe in time you'll remember things better and see the whole picture instead of just catchin' a glimpse of the corner."

"Maybe," he said. "But I don't want to remember anymore." He laughed grimly. "It's funny, but I'd rather deal with the dust and the drought than go back to that life. The things I've seen, the pictures that play in my head sometimes, Emma, you just wouldn't believe. I don't want it. I don't want any of it."

She looked away, self-conscious but unwilling to completely let it drop. So much was riding on this for her. "Then what do you want, Dean?" she asked shyly.

Dean looked at her and then glanced away. There was a long pause, but when he finally spoke there was resolution and conviction behind the words. "I want Florabel," he said. "I want you." She turned to him, her eyes wide, surprised by his honesty. "I want to help you build the farm back up, and I want to put roots down. I don't think I ever did that before," he admitted. He suddenly felt naked and raw. He cleared his throat when he watched her stunned face. "I was thinkin'," he said, switching gears out of embarrassment. "Maybe Jeb and I could work to irrigate a field or two. Might be a good summer project," he said.

"What if'n your brother comes lookin' for you, even if you ain't lookin' for him?" she asked.

"I'm pretty sure he ain't lookin' for me, Em. And I wouldn't want him to find me if he did. I ain't goin' nowhere," he said. They sat in silence for a moment.

"I'm so glad to hear that, Dean," she said with a smile. He turned, looking into her eyes, blue and big and flooded with hope. They were so very, very beautiful. There was no telegraphing, no awkward approach, no thought given to Florabel's Birthday wish, even. Their lips simply locked and mingled, gritty lips connecting in a dusty kiss, each soothing the other's abrasions while sharing a hope for a better world for themselves and for Florabel.

Emma's lips were soft and plump with arousal. She was watching him through dilated eyes, both hungry and profound. He felt her hand on the back of his head, her fingertips barely brushing the nape, sending shivers of warmth through him. Dean experienced his own polar-shift as they melted together, an acknowledgement that he was not merely settling; he was making his own choice. He wanted this life and no other—flesh and blood, not vestige and residue. He gently tilted her back until they were both lying in the hay.

Emma coaxed his hand toward her small breasts, and he felt a thrill ripple through her as he feathered his hands over them. Dean smiled slightly as he heard the cow shift and huff out as they twined together like jigsaw pieces. Emma explored the contours of his chest and back as he unbuttoned her dress, kissing her neck and rubbing his tongue gently over her bare breasts. His teeth found her nipple, and she bucked against him as he grazed her tender flesh. Their insistence and need began to surge, and they both found themselves suddenly coated in a light, tangy sweat. The heady, feral scent set Dean off. He was deliciously teetering off the rails, unhinging with desire. He prowled his way up her sleek skin, pulling at his own buttons as he worked his way up to her mouth. He stifled her soft moans with a demanding kiss. This time a blue spark of static electricity sizzled as their lips met. They both giggled and rolled with the residual tingle until Emma was straddling him. She continued to work on his buttons as their tongues darted and explored. The cow thumped and mooed plaintively in response. Dean thought he heard the chickens also kicking up a chorus of gossipy clucks in their yard. He smiled against her kiss.

"I think we're exciting the animals," he said and went back to kissing her deeply, meshing his fingers in her hair that had come unraveled. Her response was cut off as she stiffened, senses alert and listening. She looked behind her towards the open barn door. He scanned past her, back where she'd been looking, but there was no one in the barn with them, nothing to see. When he leaned up to kiss her again, she distractedly pushed against him.

"Shhh," she said, listening to Penny groan in agitation and turn in her stall.

Dean laughed. "They won't tell on us, Em," he teased her. But she was already hastily buttoning her dress. Her head was cocked as a strange expression passed over her face. A puff of cool air filtered through the barn. When she stirred, he reached out for her, trying to coax her back, but she frustratingly slithered from his grasp, her sweat-coated skin soapy and slick, even as he continued to grope for her. He levered himself up on his elbows as she quickly descended the ladder without a word.

"Em?" he said, confused. He followed her, buttoning his shirt and latching his overalls as he went. There was a loud croak of a crow as it flew overhead somewhere. Emma quickly ran past the barn door and immediately froze. As Dean reached her, he noticed that the chickens in the yard were running in circles while dozens of jackrabbits scurried through the barnyard, heedless of any peril from humans. Emma had become fixated on the sky, and he followed her gaze. Flocks of birds were madly flying south, shrieking frantic warnings as they went. Dean followed the line of birds back toward the north. Thousands of birds were winging madly…flying from a colossal black cloud that billowed and roiled like smoke as it sped towards them at sixty miles per hour, devouring the prairie as it went. The cloud towered several thousand feet into the sky, barreling directly toward them, performing deranged somersaults and cart-wheels along the ground. "Jesus Christ," he said in utter awe. "What the ever loving fuck?"

Emma watched, stunned and trembling. "Black blizzard," she said, horror stricken. "Black blizzard!" she said more wildly, her eyes ashen with dread. They suddenly went wide with terror and fear. The storm was not much more than few miles away, now. It would soon consume their picnic spot. "Florabel!" she screamed and began running. "Florabel!" Her voice cracked and splintered. "_My baby!_" she wailed as she ran. "_FLORABEL!_"

_**To Be Continued…**_


	13. The Great Dust Storm

_**A/N: Thanks to my betas, Beckydaspatz, NongPradu, and Numpty for all of their hard work. All remaining errors are mine and mine alone. **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes, and children in peril. See chapter 1 for complete listing**_.

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 13: The Great Dust Storm**

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The rain was still falling in cold, angry beads. Ellen, Bobby and Sam parked the car behind a huge garbage dumpster that was hauling away the debris from their last battle with the elemental. It was after 2:00am, but Gerry had a couple people staying inside the trailer, no doubt acting as security since the 'vandalism' of the other night. Luckily, these guys weren't particularly attentive and had apparently taken their watch as an opportunity to get paid for drinking and passing out. The trailer had been completely dark and lifeless for the past hour. The hunters silently geared and ammo'ed up, gathering the materials for the spells. It was a rather motley assortment, but given what they were attempting, Sam wasn't too surprised.

"Bobby? A mirror, herbs and spray paint? What else?" he asked quietly as Ellen handed him a couple of brass bowls. He shoved the items into a duffel.

"Don't forget the holy water and graveyard dirt," the elder hunter said, tossing a flask and a small box in as well. "We'll need blood, too, but I'll donate that when we get there," Bobby said.

"Another boring day at the office," Ellen snorted.

"Most of this is for the protective circle. You two are going to stay inside it until I tell you to move. Once the elemental is trapped, I've got the retrieval spell ready to go. It should grab Dean from wherever he is on the planet right now. When we've got him, you two will take care of the spirits and I'll banish the demon. We'll make a play-date with our vengeful friends and finish up with them later. I wish we could have gotten the site closed down. I think it will be even more volatile once we do this, but we'll get Dean back and then sort out the rest tomorrow." Bobby said.

"Like I said," Ellen scoffed. "Another boring day,"

"C'mon," Bobby said. "Let's get our boy back."

Inside the damaged building, the hunters set to work immediately. Bobby painted four banishing sigils, one in each corner and a large circle in the middle of the floor. "You keep lookout for our vengeful spirit. We don't want it callin' the demon until…" He noticed his breath frosting even as he spoke. "Aw hell," he groused, grabbing his sawed-off and firing behind him. "Company's early," he warned. Sam and Ellen set themselves back to back, watching for its return as Bobby furiously went back to setting up the circle. He sprinkled the dirt inside two different runes painted within the larger circle and set the herb smudges alight in brass bowls. Finally, he sprinkled holy water around the edges. "Earth, Fire, Water," Bobby mused. "When Wind shows up, it'll be a party."

The spirit flickered in front of Ellen, and she fired a round into it without batting an eye. "Hurry it up, Singer," she warned, her voice serrated with mounting tension.

Bobby sliced his palm and let the blood drip into the smoldering herbs. "I'm gettin' there," he said as a draft wafted through the room, stirring the graveyard dirt that was lying in the circle. "Shit," he snapped.

"Is it here?" Sam asked as he looked around for something to shoot. All they could hear, however, was a soft whisper that seemed to emanate from inside the walls. "Hurry, Bobby," he said.

"Almost there," the hunter called out. Taking out a book, he read a short incantation in an unfamiliar language. It sounded akin to Russian, but Sam couldn't spend anymore thought on it, regardless of his academic interest being piqued. A strong wind blew, knocking off Bobby's cap.

"Anytime, Bobby," Ellen nudged. Bobby began reciting faster. The smoldering herbs caught fire and sent up a high flame cloaked in a thick, black smoke.

"All right, get inside the circle and don't move out of it until I tell you to," Bobby said. He picked up the mirror and looked around. "Don't shoot at the spirits. They won't be able to touch you inside the circle. Follow my instructions and move when I say so. You should be all right, you know, just as long as you don't get skewered by flying debris." The other hunters looked at him incredulously, but he just shrugged. "What? You want hazard pay?" he snorted.

The vengeful spirit appeared with a growl right in front of Sam. "Another _Ördög_ fighter?" it scoffed with a slow, glacial smile. "Big circus man like the other?" it said. "Bigger!"

"Who the hell are you? What did you do with Dean? How do you know him?" Sam demanded.

The thing merely bared its teeth and barreled toward the young hunter, only to be stopped as if it hit an invisible barrier when it attempted to cross into the circle. Confusion flit over its face. The thing let loose a deep, resonating growl of frustration and held its sparking fingers in the air, creating a cat's cradle of electricity between its hands as it chanted the same incantation that Sam had heard it utter the other night.

"Here we go," Sam warned.

**O**

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Emma, stop!" Dean shouted as he ran to catch up to her. Her old shoes made it far easier than it should have been. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back, but she yanked violently against him, wild with adrenaline and fear.

"Let me go!" she screamed savagely. "Florabel!" She began running even as Dean latched on and anchored her.

"Emma!" He put his arms around her as she thrashed against him. "I'll get her. You get in the house," he yelled, but she wasn't hearing him.

"Florabel!" she shrieked.

He shook her, forcing her to look at him, but there was little thought firing behind her eyes other than primal desperation. He pointed to the house. "Go! I'll get her. I can run faster. I'll bring her back, Em." He shook her once more. "Emma," he lowered his voice. "I'll find her," he said emphatically. They shared one last agonizing glance, and his words finally sunk in. She blinked at him, begging him wordlessly to save her child. He nodded his promise and sped away. The woman sluggishly walked toward the house like a dazed trauma victim, heedless of the rabbits bounding madly across her path.

The ground was a blur beneath his feet. He didn't feel anything, no footfalls, no pain, not even the need to breathe. He was flying across the prairie, leaping clumps of dead thistle and scrub, scanning the horizon as it was being swallowed by the black, bloated wall that frothed and billowed endlessly. The only movement he saw on the ground was hundreds of jackrabbits making a mad, fruitless dash to outrun the storm. After a couple of minutes, the bank of clouds loomed up, filling Dean's vision entirely; there was no sign of the little girl. He could see flashes of blue flame flicking outward as the mass curdled along the ground. Eddying pinwheels and scrolls of dust broke away from the front of the storm and hailed a black, aurora-like curtain of dirt toward the ground, laying a black carpet upon which the storm paraded proudly down.

A small flash of white caught his eye and he quickened his pace. At first it was no more than a white dot in the distance, lightly shimmering in the trapped afternoon heat, but he knew. And he also knew there was no way he was going to get to her and get her back to the house before they were caught. The last few unlucky birds flew chaotically, already being twitted by the wind and the forward momentum of the storm. They lurched and pitched in the air, calling shrill warnings as they fought to stay airborne.

"Florabel!" he yelled as he ran. He could see her blond hair flying behind her as she scrambled desperately. She corrected her course and began running toward him, mewling out in terror as she sped as fast as she could. They were already being pelted by pebbles and small chunks of debris that were falling like rose-petals and tickertape as the storm pompously marched onward. Dust devils and agitated pillars of tortured grit flew into the air all around them, puffing out toroidal vortices of dust in homage or tribute to the power that was bearing them aloft. There was an almost metallic rumble to the storm; it clattered and groaned as it devoured the world. Florabel flung her arms out as she ran. She aimed for Dean, her eyes donut-wide and stricken. The storm almost had her—almost had his little girl. He surged forward wildly, reaching his human limits, throwing himself toward her. He grabbed her into his arms just as night descended and the tidal wave of dirt consumed them.

This was like no other duster he'd ever seen. The darkness was abrupt and absolute. He could feel Florabel in his arms, but he couldn't see her. He pressed her head to his heaving chest as he tried to turn about and run back the way he came. But the mercurial winds within the cloud were disorienting, hitting them from all sides. It didn't take long before he'd lost his bearings and could not be sure which way he was running. Keeping his eyes open was impossible. Cold grit was biting into them at a steady 80mph, scraping and scoring his eyes, causing tears to stream out in an attempt to wash and protect them. The icy gusts were much worse, threatening to topple them at any given moment. It had been in the low 80's a moment ago. Dean could swear that the temperature had plummeted thirty degrees at least.

He paused briefly to try and catch his breath, but that was an even bigger challenge than fighting the wind. He tucked his face into the crook of his shoulder, like a bird seeking shelter under its own wing in an attempt to find some angle, some place where he could breathe normally. Florabel was whimpering as she choked on his name.

"Pally," she coughed. "Pally?" She reached up and touched his face as though she were trying to gauge whether he was there or not. He was certain she could see him no better than he could see her. She coughed again and pressed her forehead to his chest, seeking what shelter she could, letting out a high-pitched squeal of fear and pain before it turned into a coughing fit. Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled out his bandana. He used his sense of touch to find her face, pressing the material against her mouth and nose.

"Breathe through this," he coughed out. "Keep your eyes shut, and don't open them for anything, not until I tell you to. You hear me?" He felt the little girl nod against him. "You'll be all right," he added but couldn't afford to say anything else. He made the best guess that he could and began stumbling toward where he thought the farmhouse lay. He could feel Florabel settle in his arms, tucking herself against the cooling sweat on his neck. Her breathing evened out a bit with the bandana blocking out the worst of the dust.

He began trudging forward, or so he hoped, covering his nose and mouth with one hand and holding onto Florabel with the other, but he was literally walking blind. His instincts told him to keep moving, so that's what he did. The wind rattled and moaned past his ears, and he was certain that he could hear words mixed into the din, bringing to mind the time when all he ever knew was wind and sibilant whispers. His blood ran cold and he doubled his pace, praying he was walking toward the house. No matter which way he turned, each stride seemed to bring him closer to the incanting voice, and he began to feel snaps and shocks as blue quills of electricity spidered over his body. A loud, thunderous crack splintered their ears, causing both of them to cry out in pain. Dean could see a blinding white light through his eyelids as he tried to stagger away quickly. A tremendous gust of wind brought him to his knees and he wiped away the wet mud sealing his eyelids and ventured a brief glimpse to see what they were facing. Not twenty paces from them, a gaping hole in the very fabric of space ripped open, spilling a bitter, searing light over them. Recognition hit him like a shockwave, but before he could react further, the world warped and twisted and he screamed out in frustration as another vision toppled him, causing him to lose his grip on Florabel.

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Stay in the circle," Bobby countered, brandishing the mirror.

The wind-demon manifested by the back of building in the area that had already been blown away during the previous attack. Sam watched as Bobby was visibly blown off balance, despite the fact that, within the protective circle, neither Ellen nor he was affected at all.

"Bobby, be careful!" Sam shouted above the din.

Bobby found his center and worked his way toward the wind-demon. "I'm on it," he said.

"Are you out of your mind?" Ellen belted angrily. "Don't get too close!"

The second spirit blipped and shuddered at the other end of room, keeping its distance but obviously watching intently. The first spirit began either feeding the demon or feeding off of it. Spiny strands of electricity leapt from its fingers to the outer edge of the swirling Cyclone. Bobby, edged just a little closer.

"C'mon, then," Bobby coaxed, getting the mirror ready, but not pointing it anywhere yet. Debris started to splinter off the already broken building. And even though Sam and Ellen were protected from the supernatural forces in the room, the debris was a very real danger. A large chunk of what appeared to be the duct plenum of the air-system fell from the ceiling and shattered onto the floor below. Jagged pieces of sheet metal where hefted by the wind and flew in all directions. Sam ducked when a large, sharp piece of metal whizzed by his head and embedded itself into the wall behind them.

"Jesus!" Sam gasped.

The observing spirit had had enough. Like a film skipping its frames, the second spirit erratically stuttered over toward the wind demon and clamped on with its own electrical tether.

"That's it!" Bobby shouted. The winds became unstable and ferocious, and all three hunters could see the inner core of the Cyclone beginning to glow. Bobby immediately turned the mirror toward the light that was emanating from the center of the Cyclone, creating a dazzling beam that bent back upon itself and into the elemental. There was a loud splintering sound as beams of light flung out from either side, traveling along the electrical currents that had been established between the two spirits, ensnaring all three of them in connecting beams. The black cloud began whirling the opposite direction again, vacuuming the debris into itself like it had done when Dean was taken. Large shards and chunks of metal duct plenum clattered as they disappeared into the portal. The two spirits were stuck in place, no longer moving or even resisting. They had become mere conduits for the circulating energies, rigidly bound in place. The first spirit's face was frozen into a snarling rictus. The other spirit was still half in and out of phase, unable to take solid shape, perpetually in a state of vacillation.

"The door is open, Bobby! Now! Hurry!" Sam shouted as his heart hit his uvula.

**O**

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Reality and vision collided, overlapping and blending until Dean could no longer tell which was which. The light in both scenarios was just as searing, having his eyes open or closed made little difference. When he turned away from the Cyclone and looked toward Sam, all he could see was white. His stressed retinas had not yet recovered enough to process new data, and all he could see was the imprint of the blinding, elemental light. He let out an inarticulate, vibrant groan as his shoulder was jostled relentlessly. The whispering incantation echoed around and through him, making it difficult to hear anything else.

_Hang on, man, _he dimly heard Sam yell. His sight cleared enough to slowly make out his brother's anguished face, arms strained and bulging, constantly attempting to shift and grab more of Dean's shirt, even as it began to rend and shred under Sam's fingers. Dean tried to swing his right arm up, but his responses were sluggish and uncoordinated. His attempt was feeble and boneless, and he never got the arm even close to his brother. It slipped to his side, and his shredded voice rasped out another scream of agony.

_Don't l'go, Sam._ His voice cracked and broke like a pubescent boy.

As if in answer, the sharp, piercing scream of a child filled his ears. He felt his body thrum with adrenaline. "Pally!" Florabel begged and let out another panicked shriek. "I cain't hold on!" The child had her fingers tightly wound around the straps of Dean's overalls, clinging fiercely, but her slight weight was no match for the rabid winds that spewed from the glowing core. She was going to become another piece of flying debris if Dean didn't pull himself out of his vision and help her. Dean was laying face-up with Florabel sprawled on top, fighting to hold on. His body had somewhat created a dam, grit and dirt drifting against him and then suddenly blowing up and over in an arcing sheet of dust. It filled his eyes when he stirred and tried to look back at the light.

"NnNnnuughhH!" Dean ground out in terror-fueled frustration. He jounced and bucked against the semi-paralysis caused by the vision. Dean tried to reach out, but his limbs were as uncooperative here as they had been in the vision with Sam. Trapped between worlds, he could get neither version of his body to obey his commands. He swung his arm up, but it merely fell across the child's back, giving her no help beyond the simple weight of it draping across her.

Dean looked behind him again, unsure if he was in the vision or not. The tear in the Cyclone widened, and the pulsing, crystal light blinded him as efficiently as the blasting dust had_. Please don't let go,_ he begged, but he didn't know which reality he was voicing it in.

With a rending crack, the hole began absorbing and expelling debris around them, metal and wood flying into and out of the storm. He felt both drawn in and repelled at the same time as he literally straddled both worlds.

_No! Dean! Grab my hand! _Sam screamed._ Dean! Goddamn it! Grab my hand!_

"Pally!" Florabel shrieked. "I'm falling!"

Dean made a final, lurching attempt to grasp out. He felt his fingers simultaneously brush across Sam's hand and grasp firmly onto Florabel's just as she was about to be carried away by the winds. As the dual scenes played out, Dean momentarily felt the flesh of Sam's grip in his own. After uncounted attempts to make contact, the tangible feel of his brother's hand in his own set him tumbling as a lifetime of images and memories—true memories—crashed into him, like millions of dust grains barreling into him and lodging deep, implanting themselves so quickly, so violently, that he screamed in pain.

The memories and the wind sent him rolling along the prairie floor, with just enough awareness left to grip the child to him as they tumbled. He was keenly aware of her pained yelps as the wind kicked them away from the portal, but all he could do was try and hang onto her with numb hands. He could feel almost nothing as the memories poured into him. Even when a large, spiked piece of sheet metal whizzed out of the lighted core and sliced deeply into the back of his shoulder, it barely registered above a twitch. All Dean could do was blindly hold onto Florabel as he rolled and remembered.

_Everything._

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Bobby felt the pull on his body as he staggered to stand upright. Keeping the mirror solidly in one hand while holding onto one of the support columns as an anchor, he began the retrieval spell. Each word of Latinate caused the room to vibrate. Sam covered Ellen when a beam from the ceiling fell into the circle, just missing them. Rainwater began pouring down and hissing as it hit the smoking herbs.

"The guns!" Ellen shouted. She'd dropped hers and was trying to grab it from where it lay just outside the circle. Sam was able to snag it just as it was starting to be sucked toward the vortex. The two hunters readjusted and held their guns on the dueling spirits, ready to fire as soon as Bobby gave the signal. Another thunderous crack reverberated as more of the ceiling collapsed. Sam had no choice but to grab Ellen and dive out of the way, and out of the protective circle. He immediately felt the wind's vacuum, and the two hunters scrambled to keep hold of their guns while finding something to hang onto.

"Hurry Bobby!" Sam shouted. Ellen snagged onto a part of the broken back wall and allowed Sam to basically crawl up her leg to get a purchase himself. "Any damn time, Bobby!" he screamed.

The older hunter shouted the last few words of the spell as the portal sparked and popped. There was a tremendous blast of wind that emanated from the piercing light. Bobby looked at the twisting Cyclone, his eyes wide with fear and disappointment when he noted that nothing had been retrieved. "Dammit! Hang on!" he bellowed and began the spell again, but it was no use. The elemental was going to take them all if he didn't abort. They only had seconds left before the very structure of the building was at risk. "Now! Shoot now!" he yelled. Sam and Ellen wasted no time and each took aim at the spirits and shot in tandem.

The ghosts disappeared in a hail of salt. With no fuel to feed the Cyclone, it twisted in on itself and whorled into a small dust devil that spiraled into nothing. As the wind died down, Sam unfolded himself from his protective stance and stared around, his mouth gaping wide. The room was a disaster, another outer wall having partially collapsed. None of that was his concern, however. He searched where the portal had opened and noted that something had definitely gone terribly, terribly wrong.

**O**

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Another thunderous boom sounded out, and all light vanished as the brilliant core snapped shut. The only thing left was the dirt and wind that rammed into them, punting them along the ground. An avalanche of memories rammed into Dean as the wind jostled them like tumbleweeds. The memories were both suffocating and life-giving at the same time, and Dean relived his life in flash after flash after flash: his parents bringing a squishy Sammy home from the hospital—his mother's brutal, fiery murder and his father's vengeance—Sammy's kindergarten Thanksgiving play that Dad never showed up for—the endless hours of weapons training—Sam's first concussion—hunt after hunt—Sam slamming the door as he walked off in the rain, determined to make a new life for himself—Sam, possessed by Meg, shooting him on a frosty night in Duluth. The images came at Dean so fast, a fusillade so intense, that his head snapped back and he nearly seized from the overload. Each memory stuck. Every scene _took_. There was no separation, nothing marginalized or viewed at a distance. It was all acute, pinpointed, and precise. He was crying out non-stop, barely able to process everything at once but having no other choice in the matter. He could hear Florabel echoing his cries, joining in out of sheer terror, a baby wolf lifting its head and joining its parent in mournful lamentation without knowing why. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and fought desperately to get a purchase on something—anything to stop them from tumbling.

Dean felt a sharp crack on his skull as he slammed against something hard. He nearly lost his grip on Florabel as everything went soft and quiet for a second, but he shook his head clear and immediately turned, positioning Florabel into the more sheltered space between him and the thing they'd been rammed against. Rising to his knees, he put out his hand and felt the weathered bark of a tree, its skin mottled, yet sleek like driftwood from years in the wind. He was certain it was the tree with the barbed wire nest in it, but he couldn't see anything. With Florabel sandwiched between him and the tree, he took a moment to lean his head against the bark, trying to breathe, attempting to somehow absorb his new awareness. His eyes stung from grit and tears turning into a soupy cement that made opening his eyes impossible. But he didn't need his eyes to see the inner monitor play the _one_ scene over and over and over again—Meg shooting him. Not Sam. _Meg_.

Despite everything, despite the physical agony and his inability to draw a breath, despite trying to protect Florabel from the lethal storm, despite how surprisingly conflicted he suddenly felt—despite it all, Dean was bowled over by a love so fierce, a relief so palpable, that he gasped wildly, panting for oxygen, choking on both the images and the dust. That incessant tip-of-the-tongue feeling he'd had for the past two months had finally been eased. A husky sob constricted his throat, when he realized he had his brother back. The loss of his memories of Sam hadn't erased his brother; it had gouged him out, leaving behind a tangible, aching absence, deep and profound. Having had sterile glimpses all this time had done nothing more than poke an exposed nerve. Knowing that Sam hadn't wanted him dead was like being roused from a horrific nightmare. Emma, in her infinite wisdom, had known better. He was humbled and shocked that he'd ever doubted his brother. A huge gust shoved him against the tree, and he felt his head connect with the hard bark again. And that brought everything else home to him as well. For the past two months he'd been completely out of time and mind. His life made sense again, but it was more screwed up than it had ever been.

Florabel's choking coughs further reminded him of the gravity of the situation. No matter how much he wanted to revel and marvel in the fact that he was himself again, there was no time to celebrate or digest it. He was kneeling against a tree in the middle of a supernaturally charged black blizzard—forty four years before his birth, with absolutely no known means of getting back to his own time—holding not just Florabel's life in his hands, but Emma's as well, because if anything happened to Florabel, Emma would not survive it. He was certain of that.

The wind continued to slam into them, and Dean could feel his feet being covered in the drifting dust as he clung to the tree. There was no way of knowing what direction they were facing. The house was still a good half mile away, and Dean was completely blind at that moment. Breaking the cold, cemented crust of tears and dirt on his eyes would only expose them to more damage. The tree was at least holding them in place until the storm passed. They just had to survive that long. He was certain he could dimly hear the whispered mumblings that he'd heard in the black wind months ago. Whatever had created that was responsible for this, he was certain of it. And then he remembered the last hunt that he had been on with Sam, the one for the vengeful spirit that had summoned the Cyclone that he had fallen into. He knew that face well.

"Slaid," he chewed the name and spit it out angrily. Slaid and his sick-as-fuck chamber, the altar, the herbs, the blood—probably a sacrifice involved. The fucker had worked some sort of black magic, summoning something nasty that had ripped a hole in time that he'd fallen through. No wonder the spirit had acted as though it knew him. The two of them had quite the past together, and Dean was certain that if anyone was going to turn Slaid into a vengeful spirit, it was going to be him—gladly and with great enthusiasm. He shuddered to think what the farmhand had sacrificed to bring about this storm. There was no way that a chicken or a jackrabbit would provide whatever he'd summoned enough juice to do this. It would require a monumental sacrifice. His thoughts were suddenly broken when Florabel yelped as a strand of static electricity shocked her. Dean ignored the powerful static shock he received as he unhitched his overalls and pulled the bib out. Hoisting Florabel up, he literally tucked her into them, settling her next to his union suit and pulling his shirt down over her. It wouldn't be impervious, but it would be safer than where she was.

"It's like a blanket-tent, sweetheart, stay there," he coughed out. He hooked the overalls back up, creating a marsupial-like pouch for her to shelter in. She latched her legs around him and held on as best she could, clinging to him and attempting to catch her breath. Dean tried to find a position that would allow him to get some air that wasn't filled with dirt. He began coughing and vomiting mud onto the tree. Florabel reached up her hand, offering her bandana to him now that she was more sheltered, but he pushed her hand back down.

"No" he gasped out. He braced himself against the tree and used his cupped hands to try and create a pocket that would keep the dust out, but it wasn't working very well. Now that the surge of adrenaline and acute danger from the heart of the storm, or whatever that light had been, had passed, now that they were somewhat stable for the moment, Dean could feel his blood streaming down his back from the shrapnel that had hit him. He didn't feel any pain yet, but he was too cold to feel much of anything. The temperature had to have dropped over forty degrees now, and he was shivering. He felt Florabel fidgeting under his shirt. Her movement pulled on the wound, worrying it wider, spilling more warm blood down his back. At least it was warm, he thought with a snort, but that only set off another round of coughing, and he vomited more silt. There was the sound of material ripping, and he felt Florabel's hand poke through the opening at his neck, holding a torn panel of her dress for him to use to protect his nose and mouth.

"Please, Pally. Take it," he heard her muffled voice. He grabbed the material and pressed it to his mouth, taking a painful, smothered breath. After a few more moments of gulping down as much dirt as air, a pleasant dislocation began creeping over him. The storm raged on with no sign of ebbing. Blood loss, lack of oxygen and complete exhaustion swirled and fused, numbing him to just about everything but the sense of cold. Even the grim situation he found himself in seemed nothing more than an amusing absurdity.

"Oh man, Sammy," he smiled sleepily. "I went to a fuckin' square-dance. Sonofabitch!"

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma _

"Where is he, Bobby?" Sam shouted, his eyes darting helplessly over the debris. "Where is he?"

Ellen glanced around in confusion and looked at the older hunter. "Did you perform the spell correctly?" she asked.

Bobby was still catching his breath from having held the demon and spirits for so long. "It wasn't the spell," he assured them. "The spell was performed correctly. There just wasn't anything for it to grab."

"What's that mean, Bobby?" Sam glared at him. He loomed up as he approached the elder hunter. It felt like he suddenly had an apple lodged in his throat. "What the hell does that mean?"

Bobby glared back, his face a stew of emotions. "I don't know entirely. The spell should have grabbed him from wherever he was right now. It's like he…" he stammered.

"Like what?" Sam said, his eyes suddenly turning liquid. "Don't say it, Bobby."

"It's like he ain't here," Bobby said gently. "He ain't nowhere. Even if he was…" he paused and looked away from Sam. "Even if he wasn't alive, it would still grab what was left. Dean ain't in a place to be grabbed."

"Then where?" Ellen voiced everyone's question. "Out of phase? Another dimension? What?"

Bobby began rummaging through the debris, picking up the guns. "Could be."

"What? Like Carol-Ann?" Sam said derisively. "Seriously? Bobby, we have to do something now."

"We are," Bobby said. "We're going to start by doing some proper research. You said that damn thing knew Dean. Don't know how or why, but we got to work it out before we try to do anything this damn-fool heroic again. Somethin' is goin' on here, and we need to get our footing straight before we try to walk this tightrope again."

"And we still need to find a way to protect the workers from this site. We've stirred up a hornet's nest here, and I don't think these spirits are going to be satisfied by merely tossin' folks around anymore. This goes on any longer and folks are going to start dying," Ellen said as she grabbed her gun from Bobby.

Sam was numbly looking around the room, or what was left of it. His arm supported his battered ribs. "I tried to hold on," he said, dazed, his voice sounding like glass shards grinding together. "Why couldn't I have held on?" He looked at the other hunters. "I had him." Tears were streaming now, pain and exhaustion bowing him. "I had him, Bobby." Ellen ran up to him and put his arm around her shoulder, supporting him as he stumbled.

"You did," she soothed. "You held on with everything that you had. This ain't over, Sam. We'll get him back, honey. It ain't near over." She looked to Bobby, who tossed the young hunter's other arm over his shoulder and helped the shocky young man from the building.

"I need him back, Bobby," Sam mourned as he limped along, spent and devastated. "I'm at the end of my rope."

"Then tie a big-assed knot and hang on," Bobby said. "It ain't gonna be easy, but it's gonna get done. Now, let's get out of here before the spirits come back or the police arrive. Hang in there, kid."

**O**

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

His mind began to wander tangentially, his thoughts thick and stringy. It was the cold more than anything else that was bothering him. He didn't mind the muddy blood that he felt puddling down his back, because that was warm—at least initially. The rest of him shivered relentlessly as the frigid wind drove him against the tree. Other than that he was pretty good. The constant sparks and shocks from the static electricity barely registered anymore. They were only annoying because the small jolts of pain made sleeping difficult, and he really, really wanted a nap. He was glad he kept his union suit on, because he'd be seriously freezing without it. He laughed even though it hurt like hell. A fucking union suit! He was wearing one. How fucked up was that? Sammy would never let him hear the end of it. Dean Winchester in long underwear? For fuck's sake. The swatch of dress that Florabel had given him to help him breathe nearly slipped from his clumsy fingers as he continued laughing hysterically over his _period costume_.

"Fuckin' overalls," he croaked out, voice muck-deep and barely audible. "Godda hide the camera from S'mmy. Only need a pitchfork, an' it'll be f'ckn' _American Gothic_, dude. What th' f'ck?" He could feel Florabel readjusting under his clothing and he put his hand to his torso, feeling the lump like a mother soothing an unborn child. His forehead was pressed against the bark of the tree as if he were a child being made to take a time-out in a corner, huddled on his knees with his head pressed petulantly to the wall. The growing drift they were caught in continued to build and mount past his thighs, but he was completely unconcerned. At least now he didn't have to expend any more energy hanging onto the tree, the wind and the dirt held them firm. He even leaned back a little, attempting to lift his eyelids, but they were completely glued shut. He wanted to scrape the muddy cement off and clean the dirt that had become embedded under his lids. It itched and stung. Tears kept spilling out, catching more dirt and creating an even bigger cake of mud over his eyes. It felt funny and wrong, but his fingers were too thick and clumsy to work properly, so he didn't bother with his eyes. It'd have to wait. He had bigger things to worry about, like the fact that he was in the fucking 1930's. He was pretty certain that getting an eye full of mud was commonplace, here. No doubt, Emma'd make him a poultice of moldy bread or clean his eyes out with cow piss or something and he'd be fine.

"Skunk oil and turpentine?" he wheezed like a squeezebox. "Are you kidding me? Wh' the fuck is that shit?" Dean's head flopped back and relaxed into the wind. "Fuck you, Steinbeck!" he bellowed and immediately got a mouthful of dirt for his efforts. He coughed and hacked, suddenly deciding that leaning against the tree was the better option. His breathing was labored and came in shallow gasps. Trying to keep the cloth pressed to his face was taking far too much effort and energy. "Only ever read the CliffsNotes anyway, y'fucker," he slurred. "Didn't think I'd ever have t'f'ckin' live here, pecker-head!" He let out a strangled growl of perturbation. Working his uncoordinated fingers as best he could, he tied the swatch of material around his face like a cowboy so that he didn't have to hold it anymore.

"I'm th' f'ckn' masked bandit, y'all," he mumbled. "Pew-pew!" he shot at the tree with his fingers. He heard a muffled whimper coming from somewhere below deck and felt Florabel try to soothe him by rubbing his back as she held on to him. Florabel—the little girl who had stolen his heart and soul, the child he would gladly die for, who he would never stop loving as long as he lived—was probably older than his grandmother. Jesus, he was so screwed. Starved of blood and oxygen, his brain faltered and he was suddenly unable to recall why he was outside in the wind. He tried to open his eyes and failed. It felt like there was something thick covering them, but he didn't remember putting anything there. Slumping against the tree, he relaxed his knees now that the drift was up to his waist. He needed to sleep for a little while. Just as he was drifting, he heard someone call out.

"Pally?"

"Nuhhghh, godda headache, S'mmy," he said. He felt Sam move, worried maybe, or perhaps trying to find a better position. The dust was pushing him so tightly against the tree that Sammy might not have enough room. He shifted trying to give the kid a little more space to move and breathe. "Shhhh buddy. S'OK, Dad'll he home soon," he soothed the lump on his belly. His brother's small body scooched up, and Dean felt Sam's little hand periscope up out of his shirt. Sammy touched his face, patting and pinching it. "Ow, nnhuhh Sam. M'tired."

"Stay awake, Pally!" he heard Sam scold from far away. He took the hand and tucked it back under his shirt and gently gripped his collar tight, trying to prevent dust from getting inside the makeshift cocoon. A wave of protectiveness bubbled up and burst forth as he patted his shirt, intense love nearly jack-hammering out of his chest.

"S'm?" he called out. "I got you. G'nna be fine."

Sam coughed. "It's me, Pally! Please don't sleep."

"Cold," he protested. Dean coughed up a mouthful of mud and swallowed it down, slick as wet clay. He could barely hear Sam's soft whimpers. "Don' cry, S'mmy. M'here," he said as his spine suddenly tingled deliciously. He felt as tranquil and buoyant as a feather in the breeze and his thoughts drifted away just as placidly.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	14. Dust Cain't Kill Me

_**A/N: This story was made SO much better by the hard work of NongPradu, Numpty, and Beckydaspatz. They have saved me untold embarrassment and made me look so much smarter than I am. For real. **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes, and children in peril. See chapter 1 for complete listing**_.

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 14: Dust Cain't Kill Me**

**O**

_April 14, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

It was completely silent except for Florabel's plaintive sobs. Of course, crying only made it that much harder for her to breathe. As the drift mounted higher, there was less and less breathable air available, and she was starting to get a headache. She coughed up a mouthful of cleanser-thick grit and swallowed it, having no other means of disposal. The slick mess in her throat made her shiver and wretch all over again. She rested her forehead against Pally's chest and tried to calm down enough to catch her breath. Snuffling mud back into her nose only made her whimper more from the scratching pain it caused. Stuck in the stuffy dark under his shirt for hours, she was cramped and tired, and she wanted out—now.

The storm had been a living entity. Evil. Monstrous. That storm had not been impersonal or unaware. This storm knew them, and Florabel was certain that it had wanted them dead. It had marked them, had singled them out specifically, and there'd been no more chance of escaping it any more than they could have outrun a bullet. It had mocked their pain with taunting whispers and tried at every turn to harm them. She'd only ever known such malice once before. This had been so vast and expansive, though, that if Pally had not been there, she surely would have died. Pally. She was so worried about him. At first, he'd been talking nonsense, and that had scared her—laughing for no reason and calling her _Sammy_. How could he think she was a boy? Then, he'd stopped talking entirely, and that had scared her even more. It had been quite some time since he'd spoken or made a sound, and he no longer moved even when she poked him hard and called his name. He'd told her to keep her eyes shut and to stay put, and she'd been good and done as he'd asked, but now that the wind and whispers had died down, she didn't know what to do.

"Pally?" she called out. There was no answer. His breathing remained rapid and thick with dust, the expelled air nothing more than wheezes. Florabel could feel her own lungs struggling, despite having been far more protected. "Pally, please!" She tried again, shaking him roughly. He still didn't stir. She began to cry harder, but she was short of breath deep under Dean's shirt. He was pressing her into the tree, and it hurt. She had to do something soon or she was going to fall asleep, too. She knew that would be bad, but she was getting so very tired. After a moment of wiggling and buying some leverage against the tree, she tried to push Pally back to give her more breathing room. Once she'd bought a couple of inches, she finally made up her mind to disobey him, and she opened her eyes.

To her surprise, she found that it wasn't totally black anymore. There was a perceptible pale light permeating the flannel, but she couldn't see anything solid yet. She tunneled like a mole under Dean's shirt and finally popped out the top, her head pressing against the bottom of his chin. The dust-covered landscape was lit silver by the moon, three quarters full. A few comet-like tails of dust caught the moonlight and continued to serpentine through the air, but it was all settling quickly in the complete absence of any wind. The world was eerily still—shell shocked, glassy-eyed, and utterly mute.

Looking up, she noticed that Dean's head was leaning against the gnarled bark of the tree. The drift they were stuck in came up almost to his chest. His face was completely black, a thick mud covering his eyes; the sight made Florabel start to cry in a panic. He didn't look real. He didn't look alive. Only his staccato breaths told her otherwise. She struggled to get an arm up and out of his shirt, but she wound up popping a few buttons before she worked herself free. It took her a few more tries to get the hooks on his overalls to release. Once they were open, she heaved herself onto the drift and sunk into it. Looking toward the house, she could see its silhouette in the distance. She pulled on Dean's arm, trying to get him out of the drift, but she only wound up digging herself deeper. She didn't have near the strength to free him. She pulled the dress material away from his mouth and slapped his face lightly.

"You have to wake up, Pally! I cain't git you to the house," she cried out. There was no response, and she hugged him in despair. "Oh, Pally," she mourned for him. "Please!" she begged. He made a small raspy gurgle in his throat, but there was no other response. Florabel looked toward the house again. "I'm gonna go git Mama," she promised him, giving him one last hug before fighting her way out of the drift. Her body was bruised and battered from their tumble along the floor of the prairie. Her arms and legs had been scratched and shredded from rolling over thistles, one spiky quill still bit deep into her leg. She plucked it out with a yelp. She stretched her aching body, stiff from hours of cramped immobility. By the time she dug her way out of the drift, she was tottering awkwardly. Her body wanted to fall, wanted to sleep, but Pally needed her, and she wanted to see her mama more than anything in the world, so she worked to remain upright. She made her way to the house, staggering around the other drifts blocking her path, some of them ten feet high or more. She could see that her mama had put candles in the windows to try and guide them home. The back door was completely buried in a drift that reached to the roof. She couldn't even get close, so she walked to the front of the house only to find that way blocked as well.

"Mama!" she called out. Her voice was weak with exhaustion and emotion. "Mama!" she called again and began wallowing in the drift, flailing in an attempt to reach the stairs. She tried to be brave, but she started crying just the same. She struggled to work her way to the porch, but her body wouldn't work properly anymore. Her movements were jerky and palsied from exertion. Just as her spirit was flagging, the door opened. Emma moved onto the porch, holding a small kerosene lamp in her hand and looking out into the night. Florabel could see her vacant expression as the woman looked around hopelessly. She was also covered head to toe in dark dust. It couldn't have been that much better inside the house, even with all the weather-stripping they'd done.

"Mama…" Florabel's small voice rasped out as she worked her arms and legs sluggishly through the drift, getting nowhere, her body near the point of collapse. Emma turned, her face a wrecker-ball of emotion when she saw her daughter for the first time. She released a growl, raw and primitive, from somewhere so deep it was barely audible, but Florabel could feel the vibration of it all the way through the drift. The woman fumbled, setting the lantern down hastily. With her eyes fixed on Florabel, she threw herself into the drift, barreling her way to her daughter, her legs thrusting away as much dust as they could. Her arms stretched out for her child, and, reaching her, she swept the girl into a crushing, unrelenting embrace. Emma clutched her daughter to her, wringing her out, shaking her in a violent caress. The woman's voice was no more than a series of garbled noises, wordless endearments and gasps. She strove to fill her arms with as much of her daughter as she could, kissing her anywhere her lips happened to find themselves as they roamed over her little body. Florabel began to cry again.

"Mama," she wailed. "Mama…"

"Shhh, baby," Emma crooned, her first real words. "Shhh." She sunk into the drift with her daughter and rocked her gently. "Shhh…Mama's here," she comforted them both.

After allowing herself a moment to breathe in her mother's scent, the little girl lifted her tired head from Emma's shoulder. "Pally," Florabel croaked out. "You got to help him, Mama. He won't wake up." Her words brought Emma back to reality, pulling her from her dazed stupor.

"You seen him?" she asked.

Florabel nodded. "He saved me, Mama," she said, trying to break the hug. "But he ain't awake even though I tried and tried to rouse him. We got to go git him."

Emma gripped the little girl's shoulders. "Where?" she demanded.

"He's by the dead tree that's got the crow's nest in it. Please, Mama, let's go git him. He's breathing funny."

"Oh, God," Emma gasped. She floundered her way up to the porch stairs and set her daughter down. "Stay here, Florabel." She turned to fight her way back out.

"Mama, no! I want to come, too!" the girl protested.

Emma's voice dropped an octave. "Don't you dare leave this house," she said. "I'll go see to Dean. You wait here." Florabel knew that tone and that's all there was to it. She turned to sit on the steps and wait when she heard someone call out.

"Ho there! Emma? Florabel?"

Both women turned and watched a figure walk out of the dark. "Old Jeb!" Florabel cried out. "You got to help!" she begged as the old man trotted up.

"You folks all right? I been stuck in town all this while worried sick. I come back as soon as the storm let up. My God," he drew a sharp breath when he saw them. "Florabel, honey," he began. The child looked like she'd been trapped in a coal mine for a week.

"Hurry!" Florabel insisted. "Pally's out there an' he's hurt bad! Please help us!"

"Where is he?" he shouted.

Emma grabbed his shirt sleeve. "Over by the tree," she said as she began moving that way.

"Mama! Please don't leave me here alone!" Florabel wailed. "Mama!" she choked out a sob so desperate that Emma could not deny her. She turned back to go get her.

"I got her, Em," Jeb said as he made quick work of the drift with his longer legs. He scooped the little girl up in his arms. "You can hold the lamp for us, OK, doll?" he said picking up the lantern. The little girl swallowed another sob and nodded. "Good girl," he said. "Let's go git your Pally back to you."

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

At first Sam thought Dean had left the TV on again. If he'd told him once, he told him a hundred times to shut the damn thing off. At this point, Sam was certain that Dean was just doing it deliberately to provoke him. He could see his shit-eating smirk, already. Asshole. After a few groggy seconds, however, Sam realized that the voices were coming from inside the room. He sat up with a jolt and immediately hissed, grabbing his ribs, seized by both a sharp pain and the bone-deep realization there was no way that Dean could have left the TV on. He sat for a moment blinking slowly. He felt spongy, his tongue sour and flabby.

"Steady there, Sam," Bobby said as he got up and came over to the young hunter. "Why don't you lie back down a bit longer?"

"A bit longer?" Sam wrenched out, blearily looking at the clock that read 8:42 a.m. "Are you kidding me? Jesus, Bobby, what the hell?" Sam clearly remembered coming back to the motel after their aborted rescue attempt and settling in for a night of research. Bobby had put on a pot of coffee for the three of them, and that was it. He didn't remember anything else. "Bobby?" He glared at the older man.

"What? You needed the sleep," Bobby shrugged with a slightly guilty look.

Sam bitchfaced him, seething worse than a Yellowstone geyser. "You _drugged_ me!"

"I did no such thing," Bobby defended himself hotly but then cooled immediately with a contrite shrug. "Technically, it was Ellen," he said, pointing to his accomplice.

"While _you_ distracted him," Ellen said. She put her hand on Sam's shoulder. "Hackles down, boy. You needed the rest. You were out of fumes to run on."

"How could you let me sleep?" He flung the covers back and growled out in frustration and pain as he got out of bed.

"Don't get lippy with us, boy. If we hadn't put you down, you'd 'a just dropped," Bobby snipped. "We been doin' what research that could be done, and now we'll all go on together without the threat of you topplin' over on one of us. Ellen could probably take it, but I'm damn delicate," Bobby said, trying to lighten the mood. Ellen smacked him.

"Sam, listen," Ellen said. "There really wasn't much we could do that early in the morning. Cimarron County hasn't uploaded all of their old records yet. We could only go so far back as the 1950's and there was no information on that plot of land between now and then. Whatever happened there had to have happened before then. We're going to have to go over there and take a look. Go on and get yourself a shower and then we can head out."

Sam blinked, his righteous indignation over having been drugged forgotten for the moment. "Hang on," he said as he rummaged through his duffel and pulled out a card. "We have this, too." He handed it to Ellen. She read it and raised an eyebrow.

"Mad Dog?" she asked. "Who's that?"

"He's the previous owner. Didn't get his real name, sorry. The contractor at the construction site gave us his address. Gerry said he was the city's main doctor for decades. Retired now, he told us. I'm not sure how long he owned the land, but we might be able to get a lot of information out of him," he said.

Ellen pocketed the card. "Let's split up and cover more ground. You and Bobby head to the County Record's office, and I'll go have a chat with this Mad Dog."

"You sure you don't want me to go?" Sam asked. "Gerry kind of hinted that the old Doc is kind of cranky."

"Ain't my first rodeo, Sam," Ellen said. "Been tendin' bar for near on twenty years. If I can handle Bobby Singer on a bender, I can handle some old coot with an attitude." Her eyes glinted with mischief.

"You're hilarious," Bobby groused.

Ellen nipped the old hunter's nose and gave his cheek a couple of light smacks with her hand. "And don't you forget it." She grabbed her jean-jacket. "All right boys. I'm off to see Mad Dog. I'm takin' the truck," she said, palming the keys off the table. "I'll meet up with you at the Record's office when I'm done."

**O**

_April 14-15, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel couldn't tell how long it had been since she had left Dean, but it terrified her that he'd remained in the exact same position that he was in when she left. "There, Mama!" she called out pointing. "He's right there, see?" Jeb set the child down and held the lantern aloft.

"Dean!" Emma called his name out as she scrambled her way through the drift. Jeb set the lantern down and immediately began digging a solid trench through the mound of dirt so that they would be able to get the young man out. "Oh God." Emma was horrified when she saw how impacted his eyes were with dust. Her face was sorrowful and grave. "Don't no one touch his eyes," she warned. "We got to be careful and clean them with water until the dirt is well out." She smoothed her hand through his dusty hair. "Dean?" she called soothingly. "Can you hear me?" She shook him a little. "Dean!" she called again, this time in a voice that demanded an answer.

Dean expelled a rattled breath and a grated moan, but he remained otherwise unresponsive. Jeb was furiously pushing the dirt away, getting near enough to cause Dean to list to the side. Emma supported his upper body while Jeb continued. She put her arms about him and kissed his temple. "We got you, Dean. You's gonna be all right," she whispered into his ear. "Florabel, shine the light a little closer," she asked as she looked Dean over for other injuries. She hissed when her hand came away from his back, sticky with muddy blood. She inspected the torn shirt and gingerly pulled the ripped material apart, revealing the angry gash on his shoulder and upper arm. "We's gonna have to clean that and sew it up," she said, taking inventory. "Hurry Jeb. We got to git him out of here. His breathing is bad, and there ain't no tellin' how much blood he lost." Her voice was all business, but she locked eyes with Jeb momentarily and revealed Dean's grave condition to the old man. Jeb nodded and went back to digging as fast as he could.

Once he made a serviceable path, he had Emma help tilt Dean back into his arms. Jeb threaded his hands under Dean's armpits from behind and clasped them around his chest. "After we git him out, we'll be able to lift him proper, but right now I'm just gonna slide him out easy." Jeb heaved and started moving backwards towards Florabel and the lantern. Dean moaned out in pain. "It's gonna be all right, son. We got ya," Jeb said as he strained.

With effort, Jeb got him out of the drift and laid him down flat. The old man tapped Dean's cheek as they all huddled around. "Christ, he's a mess," Jeb assessed, looking Dean over. He was covered in black dirt from stem to stern, black, muddy blood saturating his clothing. His chest heaved and rattled with every breath. Jeb looked at Florabel. "How'd you make it through without being as bad off?" he asked. Florabel pointed to Dean's burst buttons.

"He kept me in there," she said. "Like the tent he made for me in my room." Emma looked at Dean and touched his torn shirt reverently.

"Oh Dean," she said, all words failing her. She swallowed and shook her head as she hooked his overalls back up.

"Dean, wake up, son," Jeb called. Florabel picked up Dean's hand and patted it.

"Wake up, Pally," she begged. "We's all here—Me and Mama and Old Jeb. Please wake up," she said as she began to cry. Emma looked him over with pity and fear. She put her arm around Florabel's shoulder as the little girl began weeping louder.

Dean stirred at that. "S'mmy?" he said so low that they could barely understand him. The effort caused him to start coughing, and Emma and Jeb turned him on his side. Emma thumped his back a little.

"That's it, Dean. Git it out," she said. Dean coughed and vomited thick grit into the dirt. Emma looked at Jeb. "We got to git him back to the house now," she said. They eased him on his back again to try and get him in a better position to be lifted. Emma situated herself by his feet, but Jeb put up a hand to stop her.

"I'll git him," he said. "You mind Florabel." The old man gathered him up and lifted him with a grunt. "I wouldn't 'a been able to do this when he first come here. He's lost a lot of weight."

Emma snatched up Florabel and the lamp, and they all headed back to the house. The moon gave enough pale light that Jeb remained sure-footed for most of the way back. The old man never spoke a single word of complaint and only asked for help once they reached the drift by the front porch. Emma deposited Florabel on the stairs and went back to help Jeb with Dean. After a bit of a struggle they got him through the drift and into the house.

When Florabel walked in, she barely recognized the place. There was a layer of dust at least an inch thick on every single thing. Dust even clung in clumps to the walls, like wet snow on tree bark. They stirred up a cloud of it as they walked through the parlor and into the kitchen. Emma quickly wiped off the table and motioned for Jeb to set Dean down there. It was only then that they could see that Old Jeb had been shaking with the strain. He gave a heaving sigh when he set his burden down and began to lose his balance as he strove to find his center. Emma grasped the old man.

"You OK, Jeb?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm fine. Ain't as young as I used to be, but I ain't gonna bust," he assured her. Emma looked him over, making sure he was steady on his feet before she set about lighting the lamps.

"I hate to ask, Jeb," she said. "But we's gonna need water, and lots of it."

Jeb nodded and grabbed two large buckets. "Don't even have to ask, Em. Bring out the big tub and we'll use that to catch what runs off when we clean his eyes out. I'll be right back." Taking the pail, he started to leave by the back door and realized it was buried in a drift. "That ain't gonna work," he said turning around and heading out toward the front door.

Emma pulled the washtub over and set it by the table. She peeled Dean's overalls down to his waist and removed the shirt, leaving him in his union suit. "Dean," she tried to rouse him, but he was entirely insensible. She examined the mud on his eyes and gulped squeamishly. "We'll git you fixed up in no time, Dean." She smiled at him even though he couldn't see or hear her. Her fingers shook as she lightly brushed them through his hair. "You done real good, Dean. You got Florabel back to me safe, just like you promised you would. I cain't never repay you for that, and they ain't no words to tell you how much it means. Ain't no words to tell you how much _you_ mean..." Tears spilled down her dirty cheeks as she took his hand in hers. "Me an' Florabel is right here," she said as the little girl climbed up on a chair and leaned against the table.

"We's with you, Pally," she said taking his other hand. "Please be OK." She buried her head in his chest and began whimpering.

"None of that, Florabel," Emma warned, even though she, herself, was wiping her eyes. "We cain't spare no time for that. We got to do what needs to be done to bring him back to us." She touched her palm to Florabel's cheek, sharing what strength she had to give.

They heard Jeb come in the front door. "Git down, now, baby girl. We's gonna need room." Florabel ran to Jeb.

"We's gonna have to scoot him back and tilt his head off the table and let the water run into the tub," he said bringing the first pail up and setting it on the table.

Emma lifted the other bucket from the floor and immediately poured it into a pot on the stove. The fire was almost out, though. "Florabel, add fuel to the stove and set this water to boiling."

Jeb grabbed the pail and turned to go get more water. "I'll keep bringing the water until you tell me to stop," he said as he headed for the door quickly. Everyone was movement and activity. Once she'd added some coal to the stove, Florabel didn't know what to do, so she just sat down on the floor in the corner and watched her mama tend Dean.

Emma pulled Dean up until his head hung back off the end of the table. She grabbed the pail and a glass of water and began pouring the water over his eyes as she supported his head with her hand. Dean reacted immediately.

"Nhnnnh!" he moaned out and coughed again, spraying Emma with mud.

"You's all right, Dean. Don't move now," she said. The man continued to cough and splutter as the water poured over him. He tried to get his hand to his face, but Emma used her hip to hold it down. "Don't touch your eyes, Dean. You'll do damage that we won't be able to undo. Now hold still," she said firmly.

"Sam!" he called out in fear. "Nahhrgh! Sam?"

"Shhh," Emma tried to calm him down. "Dean you's right here with me an' Florabel. Remember? You got caught in the storm. I'm cleanin' out your eyes because you got dirt in them. Just stay still and don't move about." Dean tried to get his hand to his eyes again. "Dean, no!" Emma said sternly. "You's gonna blind yourself if you rub that dirt into your eyes." She had to stop what she was doing in order to keep Dean's hands away from his face. He was determined to get to them. Emma felt such pity when Dean started to whimper and moan, not having enough strength to fight her. She held him down, unable to proceed, until Jeb returned.

"How's he doin'?" Jeb asked as he brought another pail of water.

"I cain't clean his eyes, he keeps fightin' me," she said as the wounded man made another attempt to get to his eyes.

Jeb came up. "I'll hold him down, you pour." The old man took both of Dean's hands and held them firm. Emma emptied another glass of water over his eyes.

"Fuck! S'mmy!" Dean began to struggle feebly. "I'll fuckin' kill y'assholes!" Dean seethed. Emma couldn't stifle a gasp of shock at his language.

"He's just airin' his lungs out, Em. He don't know what he's sayin'." Jeb said with a hint of a smile. "Ain't that right, Dean?"

"F'ck you," Dean wheezed out. "Where's m'brother?" Dean began coughing again, and they turned him on his side until the fit passed. Florabel started to weep in the corner. "Uhhnh!" he moaned out. "S'm?" he said, his voice cracking with emotion and pain. Jeb patted his back to try and loosen more of the dirt in his lungs. Dean growled in his throat, but a coughing fit interrupted him. "I'll fucking kill you, Slaid," he said when he got his breath.

"You tell 'im, tough guy," Jeb said with a smile and patted his back a few more times.

"You touch Florabel again and y'r dead, you fuckin' h'r me?" Dean spat out and continued trying to get out from under Jeb's grip. He began coughing again.

"What's he talkin' about?" Emma asked with a confused look. "Slaid ain't touched Florabel." She continued thumping Dean's back to help him get the dirt out. Dean coughed until he vomited what looked like sludge from the bottom of a stagnant pond off the side of the table. He continued to mumble invectives to Slaid whenever he had the breath to spare.

"Dunno, might be he's confusing what Slaid done to you the other night. He's talkin' off his nut right now, Em. Don't pay it no mind," Jeb offered. The old man looked at the little girl in the corner. "Hang onto him a moment," he said to Emma. He went and picked Florabel up, bringing her over to Dean. He set her on the table. "We don't got Sam, but we got Florabel, Dean. You remember her, don't you? Ain't no one hurt her. She's doin' just fine thanks to you."

Florabel lay down next to him and hugged him tight. "Please don't fuss, Pally, we's only tryin' to help you. We don't want you hurtin' yourself."

"Sam?" he mumbled and snaked his arm around the little girl.

Jeb smiled. "Close enough," he said. "Now we's gonna clean your eyes out, son. You hold on tight to Florabel so she don't git scared." Florabel cuddled him and held his hands while Emma and Jeb went back to rinsing his eyes out. The pain caused him to writhe in agony. Florabel clutched him as he cried out.

"Fffuck!" he cried. "Stop! Please stop!"

"Should I just go git the Laudanum?" Jeb suggested.

Emma hesitated. "We cain't Jeb. Not yet. We got to git his lungs cleared more. The Laudanum will stop his cough, an' we need him to bring the dust up." Dean tried to get at his painful eyes.

"Well we's gonna have to do somethin'," Jeb said as he caught the young man's hand and held it down. "His eyes is stinging him too bad. I know what it feels like to git a little somethin' caught in my eye…I cain't imagine a whole eyeful of it." Emma sighed and went to the bedroom. She returned with an armful of sheets.

"We's gonna have to latch him down," she said. She and Jeb worked quickly to twist the sheets around Dean's wrists and tie them to the table-legs by his feet so that he couldn't lift his hands above his waist.

Florabel went back to her place in the corner, sitting listlessly and staring blankly. She yawned. The child could not quite parse out everything that'd happened. The whispers on the wind had frightened her. The strange bright light during the storm, the dust, the wind, Pally's screams, all of it had overwhelmed her. But she was here in her house, in the warm kitchen. Pally was there; he was breathing, and Mama and Old Jeb were tending him. It was going to be OK. She left them to their work and let her eyes fall shut.

Once Emma and Jeb had restrained Dean, they went through both large buckets of water as they repeatedly flushed his eyes, holding them open and working to get every grain of dirt out. Dean fought them, but he was so out of it, they weren't even sure if he knew he was restrained or not. After several glasses full of water they washed enough dirt away to see his eyes. They were blood red and agitated; tears poured from them freely. His irises roamed around, searching out something to land upon, but whether because of his current confused state or because he had no sight, they never landed on anything for more than a second. They would just have to wait until he was coherent to find out the full extent of the damage. Jeb waved his hand in front of Dean's eyes and snapped his fingers, but Dean didn't respond. There was no way to tell what that meant, though. They peeled back his lids and poured more water into his eyes, flushing them out thoroughly.

"S'mmy, please stop," he begged just before he let out a sigh and his body went entirely slack.

Emma immediately stopped and bent down, checking his breathing. "Dean?" she shook him lightly.

"He's just passed out. It's a blessing, really," Jeb said. "Let's finish this up so he don't have to go through the pain of it when he's awake."

"I hope he didn't grind the dust into his eyes with his hands, when he was out in the storm," Emma said. "He won't be able to see if'n he pressed on them."

Jeb nodded. "Well, at least the crust and dirt on them was untouched when we found him, so we got to hope he had the sense not to rub 'em during the storm." He looked at Emma and patted her face kindly. "We gonna fix him up, darlin'. Don't you think otherwise."

When they'd done all that they could with his eyes, they moved on, untying him and rolling him over. He didn't flinch when Emma inspected his shoulder wound. "This needs sewin' up," she said with a sigh. "Then we need to clean him up and git Florab…" she said as she looked at her daughter and stopped short. The child had gone back to her place in the corner and appeared to be asleep. She went over to her immediately.

The little girl was bruised, scratched and covered in dirt. Her blond hair was nothing more than a black, sooty mass of tangles. "Florabel," Emma said as she shook her shoulder, but the child didn't respond. "Florabel?" Emma shook her harder and picked her up. She was malleable and putty-like in Emma's hands. "Jeb!" Emma said in terror. "Somethin's wrong!"

The old man ran over immediately and cupped the little girl's chin. "Florabel? Doll? Open your eyes, sweetheart," he said. She opened her eyes for a brief moment, but they just shut down on their own again.

"What's wrong with her?" Emma said in a panic.

"Look at the time, Emma," he said. She suddenly noticed that it was almost 3:00 a.m. "This child has been through hell today, she's tuckered out is all. C'mon, let's git her washed up and then we'll finish up with Dean and git 'em both to bed." He poured some of the hot water into the tub that they'd used to catch the run-off from washing Dean's eyes out. Emma pulled the dress off and looked at it wistfully. There was no saving it. She fingered the lace, remembering the hours she spent sewing it, thinking how surprised and delighted Florabel would be. She set the dress aside. It didn't matter. None of it did. She had her little girl, thanks to Dean. Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought of him protecting her with his life for all those hours. She gently lifted Florabel and immersed her in the lukewarm water. The child remained fast asleep. She only opened her eyes when her mother leaned her head back to wet her hair, but they closed back down immediately when she saw her mama's face and heard her soothing voice. Emma hummed to her and kissed each finger as she washed them one at a time.

"My baby girl," Emma whispered. "My beloved child."

Jeb went into Dean's bedroom and removed the top cover from the bed. Folding it up, he carried it out of the house and shook it free of the dust. He beat it until nothing else came out of it. He came back in and held it open, ready to receive the little girl. "I'll take her into Dean's room. It's a mess in there, dust everywhere, but it ain't no better or worse than anywheres else. I'll hang a wet sheet on the window agin and start dusting tomorrow. We's gonna have to keep that room as clean as we can so's their lungs don't git no worse." He looked at Florabel again. "Best to put them in the same room so's we can watch over them at the same time. Let me have her, Em." Emma lovingly set the naked child in the blanket that Jeb held in his outstretched hands.

"Don't let nothin' happen to her, Jeb," she said.

"Ain't nothin' gonna happen to Miss Flibbertigibbet," he said as he covered her up and bounced her lightly in his arms. "I'll put her to bed and then we can git Dean tooken care of." Emma had already turned back to the young man and was stripping off his overalls.

"What's this?" she said as she pulled the gun out of his pocket. She looked wide eyed at Jeb. "Why would Dean have a gun?"

Jeb hemmed. "Oh, th-that's mine. We was gonna go shootin' for practice. I lent it to him," he said with a guilty glance at Dean. "Here, let me take that and I'll put it in his drawer for now." He took the gun and disappeared into the bedroom leaving Dean alone with Emma.

The woman looked him over and shook her head as tears filled her eyes. He looked terrible. She remembered the strength and power that had emanated from him when he first arrived, despite how sick he'd been at the time. He was so thin, now, his muscles still defined but so much less than what they'd been. She unbuttoned his union suit and began easing his arm out of it. Dirt was crusted to him like a second skin—scaly, black and gritty. The bullet wound now had a matching gouge on the other side of his shoulder. Blood mixed with dirt to fill the wound, causing it to gape even wider. She gently wiped his back clean, blood flaking off like rust and dusting her hands with coppery residue.

Emma knelt down and spoke in his ear. "Don't you dare think of leavin' me and Florabel now," she said. "We need you, Dean. I cain't think of life without you by my side. I refuse to." She began weeping as she looked around the dusty, muddy kitchen. "Please stay with us." Her voice hitched. "I cain't go through this agin. Your family needs you." She turned away and sobbed into her hands. After a moment she stopped abruptly and looked at Dean, having found the inner strength to fight. "You ain't goin' nowhere. You promised me," she said defiantly, her jaw set. She went and pulled the pot of steaming water off the stove and began cleaning his wound.

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Ellen parked the car and got out. The small, idyllic farmhouse was surrounded by a large, well-tended yard that contained several staked signs with bright slogans: _"Think Green", "Say No To GMO's",_ _"Corporate Dropout!"_ and Ellen's favorite, "_Eat Right, Exercise, Die Healthy!"_

"Oh Lordy," she chuckled under her breath. "Probably one of them health-nuts that run marathons well into their 80's." She turned up her collar and tucked her chin into her jacket as her breath smoked out. She jogged up to the house and rang the doorbell. She waited a couple of moments and then rang again.

"Quit it, already! Give an old lady a moment!" came a muffled malediction from behind the door. When it opened with a lurch, Ellen was surprised to see that the voice belonged to a petit, but spry elderly woman. "You think I'm deaf, do ya? Got to ring several times?"

"No ma'am," Ellen said apologetically. "I'm looking for…" she began, but the old woman cut her off and laid into her.

"I told them other fellers from Monsanto that they could kiss my ass," she barked. "An' I'm tellin' you the same thing. I ain't plantin' your damn seeds on purpose. If'n they don't want them freaks of nature to go airborne and take root amidst innocent people's crops then they should Frankenstein them things to stay put in their own fields. It ain't like they haven't jerry-rigged their genetics in all other respects. Goddamned vultures! I don't even want yer damn seeds in my field. Them mutants is contaminatin' my clean crops. Now git the hell off my property. Sue me if'n you want, but I'll fight you pricks to my last dyin' breath! Just watch an' see if I don't!"

Ellen had a hard time keeping a straight face. This old thing was a spitfire, and she liked her immediately. "I'm not with Mons…Monsn…whatever you just said," she explained just as the old woman was winding up to slam the door in her face. "I'm looking for Mad Dog. Is he here?"

"You ain't with Monsanto?" the old woman looked Ellen up and down. "What d'you want, then?"

Ellen hesitated. "Um, I'm with the Oklahoma Historical Society. I'm working on a historical survey. I was told that the old farmstead up by the airport where they are building the new mall was once owned by Mad Dog. I wanted to get some information from him on the old place. Is he your husband?

"_Him_? _Husband?_" The old lady hooted. "They ain't no 'him' and they ain't no 'husband' 'round here, honey. They's only just me," she smirked.

"You're Mad Dog?"

"Don't you _Mad Dog_ me, never did much care for that nickname. Historical Society, huh? I reckon you can come on in, then," she said opening the screen door and standing back so that Ellen could enter.

"You prefer 'Doc', then?" Ellen suggested as she moved inside.

"Oh hell, just call me by my given name," she said, closing the door and pointing to the parlor. "I'm Florabel—Florabel Livingston."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	15. Talkin' Dust Bowl Blues

_**A/N: My heartfelt thanks go out to Numpty, Beckydaspatz, and NongPradu for all of their beta work. I never made it easy for them, since my brain never quite notices wehn I due shtt like these. They always do, though, and they make it all better. They rock. **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes, and children in peril. See chapter 1 for complete listing**_. _**This chapter contains disturbing sexual situations**__._

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 15: Talking Dust Bowl Blues**

**O**

_April 15, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Emma draped her shawl over Florabel and scooped her up off the bed where she'd been sleeping next to Dean. She sat down with her in the rocking chair, needing the feel of her daughter's weight on her, craving the beat of her small heart against her own. Dean must have somewhat perceived Florabel's sudden absence because he mumbled angrily and tried to reach out before being stopped by the restraints they'd had to put on him to keep him from rubbing his eyes. He muttered his brother's name a couple of times before falling back into a fitful sleep. It was just after 9:00 a.m. and Emma was sitting for the first time since the storm had ended. The house was still disastrously filled with dust, but she and Jeb had done everything that they could without collapsing themselves. They'd sewn Dean's shoulder and arm up, made up a poultice, washed him, and rinsed out his eyes one last time. Then they'd slathered both Florabel and Dean with skunk oil and turpentine. Now all they could do was wait and hope that their lungs cleared without infection setting in.

Florabel twitched and whimpered, her eyes darting back and forth under her lids, lost in a nightmare of wind and dirt, no doubt. Emma held her tight and patted her back until she opened her eyes briefly. "Mama," she murmured softly, settling back down without ever having fully roused. She simply passed from nightmare into dream with a slight sigh of relief. Emma tucked Florabel's small, pink foot under the shawl and went back to rocking her gently.

The front door opened, and Emma could hear Jeb's sad, wearied gait as he slowly made his way to the bedroom. He came in and set down the bucket of water he carried. Leaning against the doorway, he nodded to Emma as she looked up and met his eyes. He didn't say anything for a moment; then, finally, he cleared his throat. His raw voice scraped like dry leaves on asphalt.

"The chickens is all dead," he gave her the bad news, clearing his throat to try and strengthen it. "Penny, too," he said without trying to soften the blow. There wasn't any way he could. "The door to the barn didn't git closed proper, but with this storm it wouldn't 'a made a whit of difference. Weren't no way that Penny would 'a lived. The dust would 'a found a way in no matter what. The barn ain't weathered for that type of storm." Emma said nothing. She cast her eyes back to her daughter and continued to rock her gently. She merely acknowledged the catastrophe with a simple nod. Jeb came into the room and sat in the other chair with a tired groan. "I'm sorry, Em," he offered.

"We's all alive," she said after a moment, looking from Florabel to Dean and then back to Jeb. "Animals can be replaced."

"How?" he asked, before he caught himself.

Emma tossed away his concern with a wisp of a shrug. "We'll think of somethin'," she said.

Jeb eyed her intently, watched her rock Florabel until a single tear slipped over the lip of her eyelid and spilled down her cheek. She was the strongest woman he knew, and it pained him to see her edges crumble. It was as inconceivable and tragic as watching a diamond shatter. "You need sleep," he said finally.

She said nothing for a moment, trying to wipe her face surreptitiously. With Penny and the chickens gone, they were down to nothing but old and molding sacks of wheat and cornmeal to live on. Her chin quivered until she bit her cheek to steady it. "So do you," she deflected, slowly regarding him with red-rimmed eyes.

He nodded quietly. Standing up he rubbed his sore lower back. "Boy's heavy," he smiled ruefully. "Need me some liniment," he said.

"I'll rub you down in a bit," Emma offered, but Jeb waved her off.

"Ain't no need for that, Em. Others need you more," he said, giving his sore back another squeeze before moving toward the window. He removed the dry sheet that hung there, placing it in the bucket of water. He looked out and shook his head. "Everything's either stripped bare by the wind or buried up to its eyeballs in dust," he said. "Ain't no one could believe that cloud was real when we saw it comin' up yesterday. They called off the search right then and there an' sent us all back to the church to ride out the storm."

Emma stopped rocking a moment. "Search? What search?"

Jeb turned from the window. "Oh, Em," he breathed out. "I forgot to tell you with everything that happened." He looked to make sure that Florabel was still asleep. "Little Lizzy Crawford," he said, lowering his voice. "She done disappeared right after the dance on Saturday. Her mama sent her up to the house for bed, but she was gone when Pauline went to tuck her in."

Emma's eyes went wide. "My God," she said too loudly and then modulated her voice. "She was there when we left. Why would anyone take her?" Her chin began to shake as she readjusted Florabel in her arms. She looked at her daughter and stroked her hair softly, all the more precious now.

"Dunno as anyone did for sure," he said. "She might 'a wandered off, she might 'a not. Ain't no way to know for sure until they find her. Weren't no locks broken or anything upset inside the house. Nobody saw nothin'. She just disappeared."

"Dear God, poor Pauline," Emma sighed, feeling her friend's anguish. Her chest started to heave as she gulped in air. "She must be beside herself."

"She is," Jeb said. He pulled the sheet from the bucket and began wringing it out. "I was gonna go back today and help out, but they ain't no point. If'n she was lost outside…" He didn't finish. He didn't need to. "'Sides," he went on. "I'm needed here. And you need to take a nap, Em. You cain't go on like this. You look done in."

"I'm all right," she said.

"You's a liar," he countered. "You git some rest. I'm gonna hang this sheet and then go stew a couple of them chickens. Least we can do is git a few good meals out of 'em. Gonna make us some cornbread. We all need to eat so's we can git through this travail." He looked at Emma to press the issue with her, but her head was bent to the side. She was fast asleep.

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel closed the door behind her. "Sorry about cussin' you out," she said as she led Ellen through the quaint house and into the large country kitchen. "Them bastards who sell those genetic monstrosities they call seeds are so evil that when the wind blows their seeds into innocent folks' fields, they sue the farmers for what the wind brung. Been fighting them for a couple 'a years. Ain't got no tolerance for 'em."

"That's all right," Ellen smiled. "So, you're a farmer? I was told you were the doctor around these parts for a long time," she said.

"That's right. Came back home right out of medical school and did my residency here. Was a doctor and a farmer for near on forty years until I retired in '93. I still volunteer a couple days a month down at the day clinic. And I still farm somewhat. Been _Certified Organic_ for the past ten years. I raise grass-fed beef, too. Course I got a couple of young folks that do most of the actual work these days," she admitted. Florabel pointed to the kettle. "You ain't too busy that y'cain't have a cup of tea with an old woman. Now, sit yourself down an' you can ask me what y'want in a moment."

Ellen grinned and nodded. She looked around as Florabel busied herself with making tea. The kitchen had all the trappings of a long life, old photographs perched among the pleasant clutter on the antique hutch. Ellen chuckled at one with a much younger version of the doctor, probably taken in the '50's judging by the hairstyles and clothing. Florabel was feeding a baby in a highchair and both mother and child were turned to the camera with matching yucky faces.

"Becoming a doctor way back then as a woman, that must have been very challenging," Ellen marveled. "How did you manage that?"

Florabel set the kettle on the stove and turned. "It was. But I had good folks around me who encouraged me. I was once told that if'n I went and did what I wanted with my life, I'd be thirty years ahead of all the other girls. And see? They was right," she said.

Ellen nodded and continued looking at the old photos, most were of the same child that was in the first picture in various stages of growth through the years. "Your daughter?" Ellen nodded at the snapshot.

Florabel came over and dusted one of the photos lightly. "That's my baby girl," she said. "She's a doctor in Oklahoma City. Cain't be no prouder," she beamed.

Ellen noticed dual certificates for both mother and daughter physicians from _Doctors Without Borders_. "And your husband?" Ellen asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Don't got one. Never did," Florabel said. She looked at Ellen's surprised face. "I ain't a lesbian," she laughed. "I just weren't too lucky in love," she snorted. All the same, there was a soft sadness in her eyes when she said it.

"Wow," Ellen said. "Being a single mother back then? That had to have been rough."

The old woman shrugged. "Dunno. Not no more or less than other folks, I reckon. Everyone has their own stories. I ain't no different. Only thing that makes this one special is the fact that it's mine. Don't mean much beyond that." She poured the hot water into two large mugs. "Besides, I was just thirty years ahead of all them other girls," she laughed. "And we made out all right just the two of us. Though," she said with a Mona Lisa smile, "I weren't a nun. I did have company from time to time, so I weren't always alone."

Ellen laughed. "You go, girl." She took a sip of the hot tea. "And the name _Mad Dog_?"

Florabel rolled her eyes. "That nickname was a 'gift' from the men of this town when I first started doctoring folks."

"_Mad Dog_? Really?" Ellen said with a laugh. "Did you go around biting their shins or something?"

Florabel chuckled. "No. They just didn't want to come right out and call me a 'bitch' to my face. I was a young _M.D._ They thought they was bein' clever with the initials, like I was too dumb to figure it out."

"You're kidding me," Ellen said.

"Oh don't worry, honey," Florabel laughed. "I made damn good an' sure that I earned the nickname fair an' square. An' for the worst of them chauvinists, I would always snicker through their prostate exams," she said, wiggling her pinky. "That usually shut them up."

"Florabel, honey," Ellen said, amused and genuinely impressed. "You are definitely a woman after my own heart."

**O**

_April 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel twisted the ties of her nightgown and fretted. She was bored and anxious. Her mama had put her to bed a hundred years ago, or so it felt, and she wouldn't let her get up or get dressed. At first it had felt good to sleep, and she didn't even remember much about yesterday at all. It was after suppertime when she finally woke up. Emma had called her a lazy sleepy-head, but she could tell that her mama wasn't really mad at her at all. In fact, her mama had been extra gentle with her, kissing every scratch and cut she'd gotten during the storm just before painting the wounds with iodine. That hurt a lot, but Emma had held her hand the whole time.

She'd been watching dust motes drift across a shaft of sunlight that snuck in between the window and the sheet that covered it, but that was only interesting for so long. After a while, she rolled over and put the stethoscope that Pally had given to her for her birthday into her ears. Old Jeb had gone and retrieved it from the barn where it had been left, forgotten when the storm hit. All the candy was ruined by the dirt, but her marbles and medical kit were still as good as new after a dusting. She listened to Pally's heart while he slept. He wasn't doing very well, and it scared her to see him so sick.

He'd already had a fever by the time she woke up yesterday. Her mama had told her that he'd breathed in so much dirt that he'd gotten Dust Pneumonia. She'd cried until her mama hugged her and told her to be strong and brave, and she was really trying to be. She was. But her papa and Henry had died of that very thing, and she was terrified that Pally was going to die, too. She could tell that her mama was just as worried, maybe even more. Her mama's eyes were joyless and frightened whenever she tended him. She looked at Dean the way she'd looked at her papa when he was sick. So, Florabel knew things were bad. It wasn't even just the Dust Pneumonia. His eyes had gotten so much dust in them during the storm that he couldn't see right. They were red and swollen, sticky tears leaked out and dried into a crust, sealing his eyes shut. Her mama had to continually wipe the edges ever so gently with a warm, wet cloth so that they would stay unglued. Florabel knew they must be itchy and sore, because her Mama and Jeb had to tie Pally's hands down to keep him from rubbing them. It was all he seemed to want to do, and that was the one thing that would hurt them the most. Everyone tried to tell him so, but his fever made him so confused he didn't always know what you were saying to him. There was even one time that he did seem to understand, and he'd begged Emma to let his hands loose promising that he wouldn't touch his eyes. But not a half hour later he'd completely forgotten everything he'd promised and tried to rub them, so her mama had him tied up good and didn't let him go no matter how much he begged.

It wasn't at all like his last fever. Last time he'd been completely quiet for days and when he did make sounds he only moaned a lot. This time he coughed all the time and talked near non-stop. Sometimes he'd hear what you said to him and he'd talk to you like he knew who you were. He'd even answer your questions. Then, out of the blue he'd start shivering and talking complete nonsense. Often times, he'd get mad. Really mad. And he'd swear at you, thinking you were someone else. He would forget why he was tied down and he'd think he was being held prisoner. When her mama dusted the room she'd tied a rag around his mouth to keep the dust out, but he swore at her. He thought her mama was someone named "Meg", and he said such awful things that Emma had left the room crying. Her mama had worked so hard to make him well that she had completely worn herself out. She didn't think she'd ever seen her mama so tired looking before. Florabel thought she looked fit to drop, and being called a _black-eyed bitch_ had upset her. She supposed that whatever a _bitch_ was it must not be very nice. Old Jeb kept reminding them that Pally didn't know what he was sayin' and to not take his babblings to heart. He'd even grinned and called him 'creative' after a few exceptionally long outbursts. But it didn't make the words sting less. A bite was a bite, no matter if the dog was aiming for your leg or someone else's, she reckoned. Her mama tended him without saying much, but his fever had gotten higher and Florabel could see that she was sad and tired and so very sick at heart.

She hadn't come back in the room yet. Florabel wanted to get up, but with her mama so upset, she'd only get in trouble. So she just lay there and listened to Pally talk to himself until the door finally opened. Emma slipped inside with some fresh skunk oil and turpentine. She went to Dean first and began rubbing it on his chest. He grimaced and pulled at his ties, but he quieted down when her mama spoke softly to him. He didn't call her any mean names this time, and Florabel could tell that her mama was relieved.

"Mama," Florabel said languidly as she sucked on her nightgown ties. "What's a _fuckwad douchenozzle_?" Emma's eyes grew cavernous.

"I don't know, but don't you be sayin' it, young lady. I don't want to hear that agin," she said with a stern look.

"Pally said it, not me," she defended herself. "I just wanted to know what it was."

"Don't need to know," Emma said. "We ain't gonna pay no mind to what he says. He's delirious. He don't know what he's sayin', so ain't none of us gonna repeat those words, you hear me?"

"Yes, Mama," Florabel said unhappily. Jeb interrupted further discussion on the matter when he came in holding a newspaper. He waved it at Emma.

"Got this from the Haffner's when I went to borrow the truck," he said. "By the way, they said we could keep it for a few days, until we don't need it." He came in and sat down in the rocking chair as Emma continued to apply paste to Dean's chest. Jeb waved the paper to try and deflect the smell away from him. "Lord 'a mercy!" he choked. He opened the paper. "You should see this, Em," he said. "They's callin' the entire Panhandle a disaster area. _Black Sunday_, they's callin' the storm. Some AP boys was stuck in it about six miles outside of Boise City and sent in this report. Listen to this: _Three little words achingly familiar on a Western farmer's tongue, rule life in the dust bowl of the continent – if it rains._ Huh," he mused. "_Dust bowl_. Ain't that fittin'?"

Emma looked up, disinterested, barely comprehending what he was saying. She put her hand to Dean's forehead and closed her eyes against the worry. "He's burnin' up and his chest is full." She pulled out a small wad of cash from her apron pocket and handed it to Jeb. "Give Doc Dawson this. It's all I got, what Dean gave me and what I have left from the cattle slaughter." She stuffed the bills into Jeb's hand. "Fetch him, Jeb. Please."

The old man put his hand to Emma's cheek. "I ain't givin' him everything you got. He'll come for a fair price." He looked at Dean who was mumbling and yanking on the sheets that held his hands away from his face. "He ain't Red, Emma. I know you's scared. Be brave, girl. I'll go fetch Doc."

"Mama, can I go with Old Jeb? I ain't sick. Please?" Florabel pressed. She wanted nothing more than to get out of that bed. She had plenty of bruises and scrapes, but that wasn't enough to make her stay put for this long. Thanks to Dean, she hadn't breathed in so much dust that her lungs had gotten infected like his. She looked at Jeb and begged him with her eyes.

"We'll be in the truck," Jeb said before Emma could say no. "We ain't gonna be gone long. Do her good to git out just a bit. The wind ain't too bad today, and they already cleared the road of drifts all the way into town."

Emma was not going to allow it, but she looked at her daughter and saw the misery in her eyes from being cooped up. She sighed. "All right," she consented. "Please hurry. He needs medicine. I cain't help him this time," she said, agonized. "Ain't no poultice that can fix this."

He bent down and picked up Florabel. "Come on then, Miss Doodlebug. Let's git you dressed and let's go fetch Doc Dawson." Jeb looked back. "We won't be gone long, Em. Don't worry. Y'ain't gonna lose him, darlin'," Jeb said. "He ain't gonna leave his girls, no how."

**O**

Slaid watched the truck pull away from the farmhouse. He'd been watching for a while, heated and slick with anticipation. He'd waited for this for a long time. The Hala had come when he called and had released more energy than he ever thought possible. The young Crawford girl had been a worthy offering. He was pleased with himself, his self assurance on the cusp of arrogance. He knew he'd won. All he had to do now was go claim his property, trammel it, and enjoy playing with it whenever he wanted. They would belong to him body and soul with a simple command.

He walked around the barn and moved toward the back door, but the way was blocked by a massive drift. The wind was swishing across it, dragging ribbons of sand off the mound and collapsing into a light rain of grit that ticked against the side of the house. There was no way to get in the back, so he quietly made his way to the front door. He opened it and let it shut with a bang. As he made his way toward the kitchen, he saw Emma come out from the bedroom where the _Ördög _fighter slept. He looked past her and saw him lying on the bed, bound at the wrists. Slaid's eyes shot up in wonder. A small smile crossed his face.

Emma looked at him. "He's sick," she said as she shut the door. "He got caught in the storm and his eyes is scratched and he's feverish with Dust Pneumonia. Jeb went to fetch the doctor to come see him." She looked Slaid up and down, as though suddenly remembering the altercation on Saturday night. "What are you doin' here?" she asked angrily.

"I came for you," he said plainly. "And the little whore." Emma's mouth hinged wide and her eyes blazed at his words.

"Excuse me?" she blistered with dry fury. "How dare you say such a thing! What are you talking about?"

Slaid gripped her arm. "I dare because you and the little one are mine, now."

"Are you a lunatic?" Emma's anger turned pyroclastic as she pulled her arm back. He went to reach for her again, but she slapped him soundly across the face. "Git out of this house! I don't know what you think you's doin' here, but you ain't welcome here no more." She stood her ground and lit into him as he looked at her, dumbfounded, almost hurt by her rebuke. "I want you to collect your things from the bunkhouse and you git." She pointed to the door and pushed him toward it. Slaid looked genuinely shocked, as though talking to her that way should have had a much different effect.

He wavered a moment, his confidence broken. "No," he said almost pleadingly. "No! This is not supposed to happen. You both belong to me."

"Not supposed to happen? Belong to you?" Emma pushed him out and shut the screen door, looking at him coldly through the dusty mesh. "How could you ever think any such thing? I ain't your woman and Florabel ain't your girl. And we ain't never gonna be." She looked at his shocked face and felt a pang of compassion. "I'm sorry if'n you ever thought otherwise or I done something to make you think they was something between us." She waffled a moment. "You…you git on now, Slaid. You need to go find yourself someone new. I cain't have you comin' around here no more."

Slaid backed down the porch steps, utterly confounded. There was no way the Hala would deny him after everything he'd done. He'd provided a worthy offering. He had even left it unsullied despite his own cravings at the time. Now, the Hala was going to deny him the only two people that mattered? Slaid went into the barn and lifted the trapdoor, descending into the root cellar. He lit the lamp and looked at the altar.

"You promised me," he seethed. He let loose a snarl of outrage and cleared the altar with a swipe of his arm. "You promised me!" he screamed. He panted until he mastered himself. "Why?" he asked as tears streamed down his face and into his stubble. "I've done everything. _Everything_." Slaid thought of the night he'd first summoned the demon. His mother had always told him that a Hala could grant a person power over others. She'd never been wrong before.

The _Ördög _fighterhad arrived that night. Perhaps it had been a huge mistake. Whatever happened had given the devil-fighter the power, not him. The women had flocked to him and still doted on him at every turn. The man had mocked him and taken his place. Slaid hated him more than he'd ever hated anyone in his life. He'd have taken him out long ago, but the man had been stronger and faster than Slaid.

The farmhand thought a moment and smiled. The _Ördög _fighter was lying flat on his back, tied up, no less—probably delirious. The farmhand knew that the only way to obtain the Hala's blessing was to go through the man who'd stolen his place. He picked up the bowls and bits of burned herbs and placed them back on the altar and kissed the bloody runes.

"I'm sorry," Slaid said. "I did not understand. Slaid will prove to you that he's worthy." Surely the Hala would transfer the power back to him once he'd removed the usurper.

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel and Ellen shared a quiet moment with their tea. "So, you wanted to ask me about the old farmstead?" Florabel ventured.

Ellen set down her cup of tea. "Uh, yes," she said. "I've been out there recently and they've been having some set-backs with the construction of the new mall, have you heard?"

"Really? I didn't know, but I tend to let news sit these days. I been fighting to keep myself out of court with that devil pesticide company." She got up and looked out the window over her fields. "I hope the delay on the new mall ain't too long. I heard tell they was gonna build a TCBY there. Been lookin' forward to some frozen yogurt."

Ellen looked at Florabel. "Yeah, some of the workers there have had some accidents. One of them said it was a ghost that pushed him off the roof. Matt Crawford, they said his name was."

"Matt? He's a good boy. He's almost like a nephew to me," Florabel said. "I delivered him. Weighed almost 9lbs. Big, healthy chunk of a baby," she laughed. "He had the face of a cherub. You say he seen a ghost?"

"That's what he says, yes," Ellen said. "Said that a ghost and a big black cyclone knocked him off the roof. He's OK, though."

Florabel blanched and looked at Ellen. "What did you say? A cyclone?"

Ellen nodded. "That ring a bell with you?"

"Oh my God," Florabel said. She began stammering. "I—I didn't—I wouldn't 'a sold the land had I known it was still—that he was still there." Florabel began roaming around the kitchen like a caged leopard.

"Dr. Livingston?" Ellen got up and stopped her. "What do you know about it?"

"It's been over seventy years," she said and wrung her hands. "I never been back there since—since everything happened. I wouldn't 'a sold it if I'd known. I sold most of the other farmland decades ago, back when I was studying to be a doctor. Paid for medical school on the sale of that land. Always kept the plot that the house and barn had been on, though. Sentimental value, I reckon. I wouldn't never live there again, not after…," she swallowed and rubbed her neck anxiously. "Finally the airport folks approached me last year and made a good offer, so I finally let it go. I'd never sold that land if'n I thought it was dangerous."

"What happened there?" Ellen asked.

Florabel blinked, embarrassed and distracted. "You wouldn't believe me," she said. "No one ever did."

Ellen gripped the old woman's shoulders. "Try me. I know it's hard to believe, but I might be able to help."

"Help? How could you possibly help?" A thought struck her, and she eyed the younger woman suspiciously. "You ain't with the Historical Society are you?"

Ellen sighed. "No. I'm sorry. I'm here to help, though, you have to believe me."

"Has anyone been hurt?" Florabel asked. "Ain't no one been killed have they?"

"A few of the boys at the site have had broken bones. And one of my friends is missing. We're trying to find him, but we need to know everything that might have happened on that land, any tragedies or strange deaths." Ellen asked. Florabel looked away, her eyes filling with tears.

"Lots of people died there. That land was homesteaded by my great grandfather. Whole families died on that land," she said. "But some things happened when I was a child. Things I don't want to recall," she said. "Bad things."

"Anything you can tell me would be a great help. My friend's life is in danger. Did anyone die on that land that had call to be angry?"

"I seen that Cyclone," she said. "I seen it once, so long ago, but I remember like it was yesterday." She pointed to an old photograph on the wall. "It happened in 1935, during the height of the Dust Bowl, not too long after Black Sunday." Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the photo and gently put her hand on the image of the people standing in front of an old farmhouse, connecting with them in her own way. Ellen came up alongside her and gently placed her hand on the old woman's shoulder.

"Do you think you can tell me about…" She stopped and did a double take as she looked at the picture. She moved up close and looked again. "Do you mind?" she said as she took the photo off the wall without waiting for an answer. She moved over to the window and looked at it in the light. Her eyes bugged, and she squinted and looked again.

"What is it?" Florabel asked.

Ellen turned the photograph around and read the back, written in big, childlike letters:

_Mama, Pally, and me—Apr. 14, 1935_

"This was taken in 1935?" she asked.

Florabel nodded. "It was taken on my eighth birthday, the day of the black blizzard. Black Sunday," she said. "It started out as one of the happiest days of my life. Ended a whole different way, though."

Ellen continued studying the photo in shock and looked at the back. "Pally?"

Florabel shot her a glance. "He was a friend," she said. "The best I ever had," she added quietly.

"Pally?" Ellen belted out again, stiff and wheezy, like she'd just downed a double whiskey, neat.

"It wasn't his real name," Florabel said. "It's just what I called him. His name was Dean. Dean…" she hesitated for a moment, remembering. "Dean Hetfield," she said. She grabbed the frame from Ellen when the younger woman nearly dropped it. "What?" Florabel asked. "What's wrong?"

"One moment," Ellen said, as she grabbed her cell phone with a shaky hand and pressed a button. "Sam, honey," she said after a pause. "You and Bobby stop what you're doing and get over to Mad Dog's right away. I have a lead on your brother. Hurry," she said and hung up. The two women looked at one another, each absorbing different types of shocks.

"D—did you…" Florabel stuttered. "Did you just say _Sam_?"

**O**

_April 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

He was going to have to move fast before the whore and the old man came back with the doctor, they'd already been gone for some time. Stealing back into the house, he eased the door shut, making certain that the bitch didn't hear him. He could hear her footsteps above, tending to a quick chore, no doubt. She'd be back, though, so he moved as quickly as he could into the kitchen and down the small hallway.

Opening the door, a slow, fell smile spread across his face. The Devil fighter was lying there, bound by his wrists, and Slaid felt a surge of blood rush to his groin at the sight of him in that state. The man's eyes were closed, but he looked restless, lost in some dark, troubling dream. He was twitching and moaning slightly. Slaid came over to the other side of the bed and knelt down, feeling the heat of the fever as he bent inward. He was beautiful. Soon he would forever belong to Slaid. The farmhand stripped the blanket down to the man's knees. Dean was naked except for his light shorts and he began shivering and moaning louder. Slaid placed a hand on his forehead.

"S'mm?" Dean slurred out in his sleep. "S'mmy?" His eyes fluttered open, but he squinted against even the low light in the room. They fell shut again and he grimaced and coughed as his chest rattled. "Nhuhnn, S'mmy!" he called out again, his nightmares bleeding into reality.

Slaid breathed in deeply, savoring the young man's confusion and weakened state. He eyed him up and down, watching him for a long moment until he gave into the temptation to play a little while. He raked a hand through his greasy hair and then slithered it under the sick man's shorts and fondled him. Dean's eyes snapped open, his bonds interrupting the savage punch he tried to throw.

"Wh'th'fuck?!" he called out, searching with his eyes, but everything twisted and bled together like melted wax. The light bit into him, setting off a sharp pain as though he'd eaten something cold far too fast. He sought shelter behind his lids. "Fuckin' get off!" For being as sick as he was, he suddenly sprung to life and pivoted, kicking out with his feet as he pulled against his tethers. Slaid kept one hand under his shorts and bit into Dean's groin with brittle twig-like fingers, his jagged, dirty nails penetrating tender flesh as far as they were able. He clamped his other knobby hand over Dean's mouth as the sick man cried out in agony.

"Make more noise, Devil fighter, and I'll pinch more than just flesh and gristle," Slaid hissed maliciously. He bent close to Dean's ear and licked it. "Go on, keep struggling. I like it so much better that way," he whispered. Dean retched, nearly smothered by the farmhand's pungent body odor. He fell deathly still, squinting as he tried to bring Slaid's face into focus. Slaid slowly released his hand over Dean's mouth.

"Soap and water. It does a body good, asswipe." Dean gasped and coughed up a lungful of dirt. He worked to suck in some cleaner air before going on. "Slaid," he said. "Y'f'cker. Y'summoned a demon, didn't you? Y'did this. All of it. Y'brought me here, didn't you?"

Slaid was growing cocky, forgetting his plan as he indulged in the thrill of domination. He pulled his hand out of Dean's shorts and rubbed his hand around and around on top of the fabric. "Mmm, no. I didn't bring you here. You came to steal Hala's power from me. I want it back."

"G'yer f'ckn hands off me. An' yer not just a fool, yer a raving nutjob." Dean quipped. "Elemental demons—you tool—they don' give you power 'cept to direct 'em where to go." Dean tried to get out from under Slaid's roving hand, but he began coughing. "Nuhhh!" he tried to catch his breath again, struggling to keep his overheated brain from wandering. "What were you expecting to gain from it?" He finally said.

The farmhand continued to rub against Dean as he bent close and began licking a clammy trail up his chest, stopping when he reached his nipple. His tongue slithered like an eel around and around. Dean shuddered with disgust and rage, the tart tang of bile mixing with mud in his throat.

"I want the little _wh—whore_," Slaid said, his breath hitched and he ticked twice, suppressing an orgasmic shudder as he said the word. He breathed in and out until the threat of release passed. "She's mine," he continued as soon as he could. "You took her from me. How many times have you dipped in? Does she scream as deliciously for you as she did for me? How many times has she opened her legs for you?" Dean steadied his own breathing as he worked to calm himself.

"Slaid, y'evil fuck," he tried to squirm out from under him. Slaid's hot, fetid breath was on his neck now. He swallowed against the urge to gag, his Adam's apple bobbing under Slaid's tongue. With a curl of his lip, he treated Slaid to a trademark Dean Winchester sneer. "Wha' are y'wearing?" he asked.

The question completely threw Slaid off his game. He removed his hand from Dean's groin and sat up. "Wearing?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Was jus' wonderin' if you're wearin' your red shirt and overalls." Dean looked at him, blinking his eyes and squinting in an attempt to clear his vision. "I see red, so I'm thinking yes. Am I right?"

Slaid looked down at his red shirt, confused. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, see," he explained with weak bravado, his words slurred. "I know 'li'l somethin' y'don'."

"What's that, Devil fighter?" Slaid bent in close.

"I know what y'look like as a ghost." Dean smiled groggily up at him. "An' m'happy to say, y'ain't gettin' any older, fucktard."

Slaid growled. "You'll be a ghost long before me, _Ördög_ fighter," he said, suddenly remembering his mission. He also heard the creak of the stairs as Emma descended them. She'd be there soon. He'd wasted time playing with the man. He almost wished he could keep him, but he was the only thing standing in Slaid's way. He looked around and grabbed the bottle of Laudanum, opened it, and forced it into Dean's mouth, letting a good third of the bottle slide in before clamping Dean's mouth and nose shut with all of his strength.

Dean struggled underneath Slaid's hand , trying to bite it to get him to let go, but he was weak and he was about to have another coughing fit. He tried to hold it in his mouth, but his body forced him to swallow to avoid aspirating on it just as Emma opened the door. She stopped in surprise as Slaid looked up from where he had his hand clapped over Dean's mouth.

"What are you…?" Emma began and then noticed the bottle in his hand. She could see brown liquid running down Dean's cheek. "What have you done?" she gasped. Slaid smiled cruelly.

"I was just trying to ease the Devil fighter's pain," he said as he set the bottle back on the nightstand.

"You's lyin'," she said. She moved carefully toward the end of the bed. "I want you out of this house this instant," she said, but she startled as Slaid rose. His face was viscous, and she suddenly felt very afraid. "You go on," she tried to regain her composure.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said with an ugly smile that sent a shiver up Emma's back. "This is my house. You are my property, and the little whore is my toy." He became absorbed in watching Dean cough and pathetically try to break his bonds. "Once the Devil fighter is gone, you will see. You love me like you love him, and you will be happy."

Emma had situated herself by the chest of drawers. "That ain't never gonna happen," she said. Her eyes flit to Dean who was calling her name.

"Emma, run," Dean urged her. He coughed up some of the brown muck and gagged on it. "Get out," he insisted as he struggled gracelessly to free his hands.

Emma ignored him. Moving quickly, she opened the chest of drawers and found Jeb's gun. She pulled it out and pointed it at the farmhand with a shaky grip. "You git out of here, or I'll shoot. I swear to God I will," she said. Slaid could sense her fear, but he could also sense her desperation. Slaid knew that she meant what she said.

"He's made you care for him. He's stolen you from me," Slaid said. It was almost a plea. "Once he's gone you will see. You will see Slaid and want him," he thumped his chest. She pointed to the door.

"Git out. If you ever come near me or my family, I will kill you." She was no longer trembling. Her hand was solidly pointing the gun, her eyes focused on her target, looking down the sights, drawing a bead. She gripped the gun steadily, making certain that the shot wouldn't be wild or ill aimed. Slaid could see her complete concentration and determination. He moved, quickly—his hands raised in the air.

Emma followed him out to the front door where he paused. "I don't need you," he said with a shrug and a smirk. "I only ever really wanted the little whore." He sniffed, looking down his nose and bowing low. "I'll leave you to the Devil fighter. But," he chuckled. "Medicine works fast. You'll see." He slammed his fist against screen door and walked down the stairs.

Emma shut and locked the door, her hands shaking so badly that she had to try three times before she succeeded. She ran to the back door and locked it, too, despite the large drift blocking the door. "Dean!" she called out as she ran to the bedroom. She set the gun down on the stand and fell on her knees by the bed. "Dean!" she shook him.

"Mmm a'righ'. S'm?" he mumbled and coughed feebly. "Sam?" he pled. Emma picked up the bottle and saw how much was gone.

"Dear God," she said. She shook him again. "Wake up, Dean." His lids slitted briefly but then closed again. "Don't go to sleep! Dean!" she yelled frantically. "Stay with me!" she begged, but he didn't answer.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	16. Mean Things Happenin' In This World

_**A/N: My betas are the best! Thank you Beckydaspatz, NongPradu, and Numpty for making this experience so much fun.**_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes, and children in peril. See chapter 1 for complete listing**_. _**This chapter contains violence and disturbing sexual situations**__._

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 16: Mean Things Happenin' In This World**

**O**

_April 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Emma's heart pounded in her ears as she ran for the Syrup of Ipecac, praying that it wasn't too late. Her perception of time had been so completely upended when she'd walked in on Slaid that there was no way to accurately judge how much had lapsed since then. She'd lived an entire lifetime, it seemed, since pointing that gun at the farmhand. She knelt by Dean again and shook him, encouraged when he fought against her as she tried to pour the Ipecac into his mouth. He was incoherent, but his reflexes were still working at least. Pulling against his bonds, he continued to fight Slaid in his mind, and despite how weak was, he was determined to keep his mouth closed.

"Mmnhgh!" he protested, craning his neck to get as far away from the bottle as he could.

"Dean." She gripped his jaw and turned it toward her. "It's Emma. You need to swaller this down. It tastes bad, but it'll bring up the Laudanum." Whether he understood her or whether he was simply too tired to fight anymore, he stopped struggling and grimaced as he gulped the miserable concoction.

It didn't take long for the Ipecac to take effect—all over Emma, the bedding and Dean himself—several times, in fact, until nothing else but bile and dirt came up. The projectile vomiting set off a harsh coughing fit, leaving Dean beet-red and gasping. He passed out right after that, and Emma sat in stunned silence, surrounded by vomit, trying to get her hand to stop shaking long enough to recap the bottle. Her own breath was coming in catches and gasps as she tried to calm herself. As she rose to strip the soiled bedding off Dean, her legs shuddered and wobbled so severely she had to kneel back down just to keep from falling.

Before she could steady herself, she heard voices on the front porch. Jeb and Florabel had returned with Doc Dawson. Adrenaline sent out the impulse to leap up, to run to them, but her body wouldn't respond properly. Her extremities had gone completely numb.

"Emma?" She heard Jeb knock on the door and call out from far, far away. "Emma? Why's the door locked?"

She wasn't sure how she'd gotten up off the floor, didn't even remember making her way through the hall and kitchen, but she found herself walking into the parlor as though she had huge clown feet attached to her legs instead of her own small shoes. She had to pick each foot up deliberately and maneuver through the room on knees that refused to hinge. She was humming in her throat, trying to find her voice so that she could tell them she was coming. Nothing came out, though, so she just kept humming. Doc Dawson and Jeb were peering worriedly through the window. Unlocking and opening the door with hands that couldn't feel the doorknob was tricky, but she finally managed it. She turned and began walking away chaotically, legs lurching as though she had flippers on, her teeth rattling together as she hummed. Jeb caught her by the arm and started to turn her. She could see his mouth moving, but all she heard was her heartbeat. Everything started to tunnel in towards his lips, and she was utterly fascinated by his tongue as it flipped and flopped excitedly. She reached a finger out to poke it, but she was suddenly floating toward the ground. It was so odd to see Florabel looking down at her with such fear and distress, because she honestly never felt better. She was entirely warm and comfortable as the darkness descended.

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel's hands shook as she opened the door to Bobby and Sam. The communication gap between her brain and mouth was as wide as a country mile, so she just stood there gaping at Sam, her eyes sweeping over him as he towered above her. Her mouth flapped a couple of times before she gave up. Ellen wasn't wasting any time, however, needing no prologue or ceremony. She grabbed Sam by the arm and led both hunters into the kitchen. Florabel followed them in and took a chair, watching the trio intently, Sam most of all. Her eyes continually returned to him.

"What's going on, Ellen?" Sam asked. He looked around nervously, half expecting his brother to pop out of the pantry.

"Boys, I need you to keep your heads, now," she warned. "We got a lot of work ahead of us, and we ain't got time for hysterics," she said wide-eyed.

"Then you might want to skip the hysterics yourself and tell us what you found," Bobby jabbed.

Ellen looked from Bobby to Sam and took a steadying breath. "Just stay calm," she said as she picked up a frame that had been laying facedown on the table. She turned it around for them to look at.

Both men leaned in to look. Sam's face went gray, his head pigeon-bobbing back and forth as he scanned the photo. He grabbed the frame, drawing it in close to his face. Bobby looked at Ellen in disbelief.

Sam gave a confused grunt and then turned the photo over and read the back. He flipped it back over. "I don't get it," he said, his brain unable to comprehend what was right in front of him. "Where was this taken?"

"On the farm that once stood where the strip-mall is now being built. In 1935," Ellen added pointedly.

Sam was still huffing and puffing as he looked at the photo. "It can't be. This guy's wearing overalls for Christ's sake."

"It's him, Sam," she said.

"But…," he said without finishing. He just kept staring at the photo.

Bobby put his hand on Sam's shoulder. The older hunter looked at Ellen. "So that's why the retrieval spell didn't work. Dean wasn't anywhere on the planet, at least not right _now_, anyway." Bobby looked at the photo and then glanced at Florabel. "Are you the little girl in the photo?"

Florabel nodded stiffly. "He come to be with Mama and me sometime in February of '35. I found him half-dead in our barn. Came close to losin' him to infection a couple of days after we found him. Weren't no antibiotics back then, and his gunshot wound had festered badly. Mama tended him for days without sleeping herself."

"What happened to him?" Sam asked breathlessly.

"He pulled through. Mama seen to that. It was a close shave, but he got better. He stayed with Mama and me for over two months—felt like a lifetime to me, though. Became like one of the family."

"Months?" Sam puffed out in amazement. "And then what happened? Where is he?"

"Happened?" Florabel stared at him, twisted with pain and sorrow. "What happened?" Tears started filling her eyes. "_Slaid happened_, that's what. Slaid happened to all of us. He ruined everything," she said brokenly.

**O**

_April 16, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Emma opened her eyes to the rattle of glass beads clicking together and strange slurping noises. She blinked in confusion, trying to recall why she'd slept so late. She felt the bed jiggle and turned her head, practically bumping into Florabel's face so close to hers. The child's lumpy cheeks were puffed out with marbles and she enthusiastically gurgled against them while she watched her mother. When Emma turned, Florabel's blue eyes grew large. She quickly spit out the marbles, leaving thin strings of slimy saliva connecting them to her tongue.

"Don't put them things in your mouth, Florabel. How many times do I got to say it? You'll choke on them one day. Either that or you'll have marbles rattlin' around in your tummy forever," Emma lectured sleepily. The child was too excited to notice the mild scolding.

"Mama!" she said as she bent in even closer, Emma's entire scope of vision filling with her daughter's bottomless blue eyes. "I'm watchin' over you like they done tol' me to. I ain't a-gonna let nothin' bad happen to you, Mama. You just git some sleep. Doc says you need lots of rest and for me not to pester you none. I ain't. I'm only talkin' cause you's awake."

"Doc?" Emma grogged before she jerked suddenly, memories of Slaid's attack on Dean returning to her full force. "Dean!" she called out hoarsely. "We have to help him!" She threw off the covers and began to get out of bed even as Florabel pulled her arm, trying to stop her.

"Mama, the Doc's been with Pally all day. You been sleeping for hours." The little girl followed close on her heels, jumping over the bed as her mother began walking toward the door. "Doc says you ain't supposed to git up. He says you need rest and lots of food. Ain't you been eatin', Mama?"

"Been other things to think about. I must 'a forgot," she said distractedly as she made her way downstairs. Doc Dawson and Jeb looked up as she entered.

"Why are you out 'a bed?" Doc said as he rose and moved to usher her back to her room.

"I'm fine," she said, fending him off. "I'm gonna fix some supper an' eat somethin' like you said. I just want to check on Dean. How's he doin'?" Doc backed off and turned to look at Dean.

"He's strung up on Laudanum, but y'got most of it out of him. We noticed the Ipecac and the mess. We figured out what happened. He ain't feelin' no pain, though, I can guarantee y'that. He'll sleep it off. Gonna have a wallopin' headache when he comes to. Don't give him no more unless it's a capful, and keep it out of his reach while he's delirious. He drank enough to kill hisself a few times over. Make sure them tethers is tight enough that he cain't git out of 'em to hurt hisself like that agin."

"That ain't what happened. He didn't drink it on purpose, an' I didn't give it to him," Emma said, bending down and gently stroking Dean's hair. She looked at Jeb. "Slaid done it. He weren't tryin' to be kind, neither. I think he meant to overdose him. Slaid and Dean don't git along," she explained to Doc. "An' Slaid's been actin' funny and sayin' things that ain't fittin' to be said to other folks." She turned back to Jeb. "He ain't welcome here no more. I told him to clear out his belongings from the bunkhouse. You make sure he does. He ain't never to come back."

Jeb raised his eyebrows but nodded. "I'll see to it," he assured her.

"How is Dean otherwise? What about the Dust Pneumonia?" Emma asked, turning to the doctor again. She could plainly hear the low rumble coming from his chest as she continued to run her fingers softly over his brow.

"Well, he's got Dust Pneumonia for sure." The doctor looked sympathetic. "Though, I've seen other cases that have been just as bad where folks has pulled out of it and been just fine. He's young and otherwise healthy. Thin as a fence post and more'n a bit malnourished. But who ain't these days?" he said, pointing an accusing finger at Emma. He patted the woman as she watched Dean with pleading eyes. He remembered that look. "It ain't as bad as Henry's case nor Red's, neither, Emeline. Babies always have it worst with Dust Pneumonia, and Red—well he never did have healthy lungs, even from way back when he was a boy. He was always wheezin' on dusty days or cold days. His mama fetched me many a time for Red's bad breathin' spells. This boy ain't like that. He's bad off right now, but he'll spring back. Just you wait an' see. You leave the poultice on his shoulder for a good week—more if'n it starts festerin'. He's lost some blood, so he's gonna be tired for a while, but he ain't lost so much that he cain't bounce right on back from that, too."

"What about his eyesight?" she asked.

"You done everything right, Em," he praised her. "His eyes react to light. They's swollen and raw, but they ain't no reason to think he won't have his sight after a rest. I just treated young Ned Bekker, and he cain't see at all. Spent a good hour in the storm trying to find his way from the barn to the house. Was facin' the wind a good part of the way and kept rubbin' his eyes to try and see where he was goin'. He rubbed the dust right into 'em so bad he tore 'em up. He ain't gonna see no more. Only eighteen years old, too. It's sad. But this boy here is lucky—lucky he didn't poke at them much and lucky that he had you lookin' after him. You flushed them out good. Give it another day or so and then you's probably safe to take the restraints off. Keep his fever down. It'll probably spike now 'n agin. That's just the way of Dust Pneumonia. If'n he don't bounce back in a week, you send Jeb to fetch me. I'll do what I can. I left some medicine that should keep his chest clearer than the skunk oil. Keep using both, though. Give him a capful of Laudanum if'n he gits to be in pain. And," he said, putting his arms on Emma's shoulders. "You make sure you git rest and some food inside of you. Y'ain't gonna be any help to no one if'n you's dead." He grabbed his hat off the chair. "He's gonna sleep on through until tomorrow. Make sure y'all git rest tonight." He looked at Jeb. "C'mon old man, drive me back home an' we can have a smoke and a game of checkers before y'gotta scoot."

"I'll be right there," Jeb said as Doc headed out to the truck.

Jeb walked up to Emma and handed her the wad of cash. "Doc wouldn't take a cent, Em. Not even for the medicines he left." Jeb kissed her cheek. "They's some beans in the pot, darlin'. Just need heatin' up. Eat and then please go git more rest. You scared an old man near to death today." He hugged the young woman and kissed her hair. "I'll be back right quick," he said. "An' I'll make sure Dean ain't alone while you rest. You got Old Jeb, darlin'." He placed a knotted and gnarled hand on her cheek. "I know I ain't your papa, but I couldn't love you any more if'n you was my own daughter. I'd be a broke man if anything happened to you."

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"How the hell did this happen, Bobby?" Sam asked, his anger bubbling up as he tried come to terms with the seemingly impossible situation they now faced.

"You think I know, boy?" Bobby volleyed back, reacting to Sam's accusing tone. He softened a moment later, realizing that Sam was motivated by fear and worry. "We know that the ghost summoned the elemental. He probably summoned it back in 1935, too."

"Right," Ellen said. "There weren't any portals open anywhere else when Dean fell through, so instead of being teleported to another Elemental's portal, he went the only way he could, back in time, when the portal had been originally made, perhaps."

"But the lore didn't say anything about that, Ellen," Sam said as he paced around the kitchen, unable to remain still in his anxiety.

"No, but that doesn't mean a lot, Sam. When have two vengeful spirits fought for control of one of these things before? Might be that something like this hasn't happened before now. It's rare that anyone summons these things, because they are so dangerous and unpredictable. It shows what a moron this guy was for even attempting it. These things are raw, primitive energy—destructive energy at that. There hasn't been any books written on this shit, you know that just as well as the rest of us. We're still finding things out about a lot of this as we go. Sounds like we're about to add a chapter or two to the lore ourselves. Now, whether you like it or not, that picture isn't Photoshopped. Dean fell through time. We know that, no matter how crazy it seems." Ellen looked at Florabel. "Did Dean talk to you about any of this? Did he tell you where he was from?"

Florabel rose and looked at the photo with Sam. "Not then, no. Not really," she clarified. "We had one conversation that hinted at it, but he never came out and said it." She looked at Sam and shook her head sadly. "He didn't even know who he was for the longest time. We learned his name only from a card in his billfold that said it was Dean Hetfield. He didn't remember what it was. But even though he couldn't remember anything consciously, he was always troubled by images he'd see in his head. He was plagued by spells, when memories from his past would play out in his head even though he couldn't remember when or where they happened. He knew your name, Sam. Spoke it in his sleep a lot. Even though he couldn't remember you, he still saw you in his mind and he was always desperate to recall more." She smiled at him. "He fussed something fierce over trying to remember you. You were like that one broken coil in a mattress that kept him awake at night. You were the most important thing to him even when he didn't know you." Sam ran his hands through his hair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He finally remembered everything during the storm," Florabel said.

"The storm?" Sam asked.

"Black Sunday," Florabel said. "The biggest dust storm that hit during the Dust Bowl. It was the storm that gave the Dust Bowl its name, in fact. That storm happened on April 14, 1935, the same day that this photo was taken. We was caught out in it, and he saved me. He nearly died keeping me alive." Memories chased themselves across her face, and she closed her eyes as old events played out. "That's the day he remembered who he was," she said.

"And who was this Slaid you mentioned?" Bobby asked.

"He was a monster," she said simply as she opened her eyes and turned to the older hunter. "He's the one that summoned that…thing. I don't know how he done it. I don't know if he done it more than once. They was a lot of whisperin' during the big dust storm, so I'm sure he had a hand in that, too. But I saw him bring the black cyclone once. I tried to forget the whole thing. I don't want to think about it now." Her face started to shatter. "I don't want to talk about it."

Ellen moved in and put her arm gently around the older woman's shoulder. "I know it's hard, but this really is a matter of life or death. I can see in your face how much you cared about Dean." Florabel's chest hitched at that and she started to weep. "But we need to know what happened. As hard as it is to understand this, it isn't really over. We might be able to help him if you tell us what happened."

She fought her emotions for a moment before speaking again. "I always felt that it was my fault," she said at last. "That I done something to make Slaid the way he was. I thought that for years. And I felt especially bad for how I acted that day when everything happened. I was selfish and childish, and I cain't fix that. I cain't take back what I said to Mama." Ellen pulled out a chair and sat the old woman down in it.

"You have to tell us, Florabel. Please," she encouraged.

The old woman took several breaths and studied her hands as they trembled in her lap. "It began on April 19, 1935. I thought the dust storm had been bad, but it was nothing compared to this. This was the worst day of my life," she began.

**O**

_April 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

He'd been shivering for days, but it was almost too warm, now. Kicking off the sheets, Dean rubbed his aching head and slowly opened his eyes, testing them, focusing carefully. Every day they got a little better and this morning was the best yet. He could plainly see about three or four houseflies flitting around, darting above him in perfect squares and triangles as they flew aimlessly over the bed. The light twisted and stretched a bit as he watched them. They were more like blurry, little blobs than flies, but he could make them out well enough. When he moved his head too quickly he would see glittery, pixie-dust-like lights stretch away from everything, and that was disorienting after a while. He closed his eyes, giving them a rest as he coughed again. He moaned out in pain and frustration. No matter how much brown mucus he coughed up, there was always more. It never ended, he never had a break—except when Emma would give him some Laudanum, which she was extremely stingy with, saying that coughing was the best thing for him. Best thing or not, coughing that much and that often fucking hurt like hell.

It took some time for him to get his breath, his impatience and annoyance mounting with every passing beat. As he lay there trying to get oxygen into his lungs without coughing himself into unconsciousness, he tried to separate all the dream and fever images from what had actually occurred.

He was certain that Slaid had really been there at least once. He nearly gagged remembering the pervert's breath against his neck and his filthy hands on his body. He gingerly opened his shorts and winced when he looked down. He could see the monster's paw-print on his thigh, the nail-bites still red and angry. What happened after that or why Slaid had left him alive was a mystery to him. There was a vague sense of Emma having been in the room with him and Slaid at one point, but that was all he could remember.

"Jesus, Sammy," he muttered. "Could things be any more FUBAR?" he lamented. He put his hand to his chest and sat up carefully, waiting for the room to stop spinning before venturing any further. Watching the flies whiz around only made him dizzier, so he shut his eyes. The world was less jumbled with them closed. He breathed carefully, knowing that any quick breath could set him off coughing. He drew his knees up and rested his elbows on them as he cradled his head in his hands. He felt old and tired, hungry and weak. Despite all of that, though, he needed to get up and move no matter how much his body protested. Slaid was out there somewhere. They weren't safe. And as revolting as the thought was, Dean still needed him in order to get back home. _If_ he could get back home at all.

His stitches pulled when he pivoted and set his feet on the floor. "What the fuck?" he said looking behind him. He could see the bandage and the lump of the poultice. He didn't remember getting cut. "Great," he sighed as he rose carefully. He put his right hand out and braced himself against the wall. "Fuckin' wonderful," he bitched against the pain he felt everywhere. Stopping to cough, he hoped to hell that it wouldn't develop into a full-blown fit. He noticed that his clothes were lying on top of the chest of drawers, freshly washed and folded, his wallet and lucky marble lying next to them. Emma had mended the shirt as best she could, sewing up the rip in the shoulder and replacing the buttons with others that didn't quite match. He got dressed slowly, pocketing the marble and wallet, and only latching the right side of his overalls in order to spare his left shoulder—again. "This is becoming a habit," he said to the shoulder. "Can't leave you alone for a moment, can I?" Clearing his throat, he shuffled his way from the room and into the kitchen.

Emma's back was turned to him as she scrubbed the window over the butcher block. She turned immediately when she heard him shuffle toward the table. "Dean!" she said, surprised. "You shouldn't be up," she began walking toward him, but he held up his hand and pulled out a chair at the table.

Dean looked around. "Where is everyone?"

"Florabel's nappin' upstairs. I sent Jeb on back to the bunkhouse for a rest, too. He's been sittin' with you at night, and then he returned the Haffner's truck this morning, walked all the way back. He needed some sleep." She looked him up and down. "You should git back to bed yourself. You ain't fit to be up, yet."

"I'm fine," he said. "I can't stay in that room all the time." He watched as Emma looked at him with concern and worry. "Is there any coffee?" he asked hopefully. At this point he would gladly gnaw the grinds if that was all there was. Emma nodded and poured him a mug, setting it down and patting his good shoulder before resuming her work. "Thanks," he said gratefully. He took a sip and wondered how long it had been since he'd had a beer…or whiskey. He cleared his throat and picked up a frame that was sitting on the table. "What's this?" he asked, looking at it. Emma's face relaxed a little, and she smiled at him, as warm and intimate as a caress. His inclination to reciprocate, however, was smothered in guilt, and he quickly cast his eyes back down to the photo, squinting to try and bring it into focus.

"It's the picture that Jeb took," she said. "He brought it back from town, and Florabel put it up in the frame. She wrote on the back, herself. She was mighty proud of that." Emma came close, looked at the picture and snorted. "I look like a silly goose," she said with a wave of dismissal at the photo.

"You look beautiful," Dean said, but then he put the picture down as though it had grown teeth. His stomach knotted with shame and remorse as he watched Emma's lovely face flush with hope.

"Says the man who's more 'n half blind right now." She walked back to the window with a chuckle. "You really need to go git some more rest," she said.

"I'm not tired," he said as he looked at the photo one last time before turning it over and placing it facedown on the table.

"I understand, Dean, and I cain't tell you how happy I am that your fever's down. You been terrible ill since the storm. You don't want to git worse by bein' over ambitious," she advised him. Her face broke into a shy smile as she turned toward him. "Besides, you have to git well so's you can court me proper," she said with sparkling eyes. They dulled immediately when she saw something strange in his expression. She cleared her throat and turned back to the window, wiping it without any thought given to cleaning, using the motion as a shield against the humility and embarrassment she suddenly felt, rubbing away the look she'd seen in his eyes, praying she was mistaken. There was an awkward silence for a moment.

"Emma," he began, but he paused, trying to find the words. She tossed him a slight shrug as she began wiping the window harder.

"You should really go back to bed, Dean," she deflected. "A good sleep will do wonders. Your eyes still need rest, too," she said.

"Emma, I need to tell you some things," he said as he rose slowly.

A small mark on the window held her attention and she scritched and scratched at it industriously, determined to get that one spot clean. "Ain't nothing so important that it cain't wait while you mend," she said. She swallowed thickly as she rubbed and scrubbed.

"Something happened during the storm," he said. Emma closed her eyes, giving up on the stain on the window. "I remembered," he nearly whispered.

Emma opened her eyes, looking past the stain, out toward the barnyard and the dwindling drift that had blocked the backdoor for days. The wind continued to eat away at it, flecks of dust flying past the window as she stared out. "Remembered?" she said blandly, a near monotone coming from her stone mask. "What did you remember?"

"How I got here. Sam. Everything," he said. "I remember who I am."

Emma remained staring out the window, fixating on the desolate view of the barnyard. She could see the chicken-coop that sheltered no life, the barn that housed no cow. "My goodness," she said quietly, without emotion. "That's wonderful, Dean." She bit her lip, feeling the tangy pull of tears behind her eyes. "So, I expect you's gonna be headin' out so's you can git on with everything, then?" she said. "Find Sam and git your revenge?"

Dean shook his head. "You were right, Em," he sighed. "I wasn't seeing the whole picture. Sam didn't do this," he pointed to his shoulder. "Not the way I thought. And I have to find him. He's in trouble and he needs me."

She dropped her cleaning rag on the butcher block and braced her hands on the warped wood. "I see," she said lamely.

"Emma," Dean said walking over to her, but he could see her shrivel away from his touch. He almost withdrew his hand, but he set it on her shoulder anyway. "Emma, there is no way to ever explain things to you that would make sense," he began.

"Don't have to, Dean," she said, picking up the rag and folding it in her hands over and over and over again. Staring at it. "Y'don't owe me nothin'," she said.

"I owe you everything. I owe you my life. Two or three times, probably more," he said ruefully. "Emma," he tried to turn her toward him, but she gently fought the pull. He continued until she relented and faced him. "Emma, I want you to know something. There is only one thing that would ever force me to leave you and Florabel," he said.

"An' this is it, ain't it?" she finished, her eyes slowly meeting his. "This is the one thing?" The momentum of her voice was steady, keeping the thin, steel rod of her emotions from snapping.

Dean's jaw clenched as he strove to find any words that would take away her pain—their pain. "Yes," he said. "I'm so sorry." She nodded and refolded the towel in her hands.

She shrugged and caught a runaway tear with the back of her hand. "Florabel's gonna be fit to be tied. She has such a crush on you." She smiled and turned away, clearing her throat.

"Emma," Dean pulled her back. "I'm not leaving today. There's a lot you don't understand, and I have to work some things out before I can even go find Sam. But I have to focus on doing that. No matter what happens, though, I won't leave until I know you and Florabel are safe."

"Safe?" she said, bewildered. "Safe from what?"

Dean hesitated. "From Slaid," he said finally. "Slaid is the one who brought me here. He's done other things, Emma. Terrible things. Things I just…things I don't even know how to begin to tell you. I have to find him. I can't get back home without him."

"What things? What's he done, Dean?" she asked as she searched his face and saw horrible secrets kept there. "Tell me." He remained still, unable or unwilling to speak. "You said some things when you was delirious. Did you know that, Dean? You spoke about Slaid a lot. You said you'd kill him if he touched Florabel agin. What did that mean, Dean?" She shook him. "What did that mean?"

He struggled for words, and finally he turned away, moving back to the table and leaning against it. "He hurt her, Em," he said, nearly inaudible.

"How?" she asked. "What did he do to her?! Don't you turn away from me! Tell me this instant, Dean!" she yelled harshly when he didn't answer her.

"Mama? What's happening? Why's you yellin' at Pally?" The fear in Florabel's small voice made them both spin toward her. She was suddenly standing in the archway between the kitchen and parlor. The child's blue eyes were huge as she looked at her mother's tear-streaked face. "What's wrong, Mama? Why's you cryin'?"

Emma twitched and rubbed her eyes, attempting to hide the evidence that was plain to be seen. "Florabel, baby girl, you startled me," she feigned a casual tone. "Dean and me was just talkin'."

"You was yellin', Mama," Florabel corrected. She came closer to the two adults, looking from one to the other, confused and frightened by what she saw in their eyes. It felt like a punch in the stomach. "Pally, why is Mama mad?" Dean looked at Emma quickly.

"I'm not mad," Emma said before Dean could say anything. Her demeanor relaxed and she put on an air of enthusiasm. "I'm just so happy for him," she said. "Dean told me that when he was in the storm his memory got jogged so good that he finally remembered everything he'd forgotten. Ain't that wonderful?" she said. The little girl looked at Dean, but any happiness she might have felt for him was tempered by his wounded expression.

"Then why ain't he smilin'?" she asked.

"Well," Emma said as she watched Dean. "He needs to go on back home, and we's gonna have to say our goodbyes. He's got a whole life waitin' for him, things he's got to do. So he'll be leavin' when he gits to feelin' fit enough." Her voice started hitching toward the end, and she coughed to try and cover it up.

Florabel's looked at the adults like they were speaking a foreign language. "Leavin'? When is he comin' back?" She turned to Dean. "When is you comin' back, Pally?" Dean went to say something, but Emma held her hand up firmly, cutting him off.

Emma smiled. "He needs to go live his life, honey. He needs to go fetch his brother and go on back to his home. It's just a miracle that he remembered everything. We need to be proper thankful for that."

"Mama?" Florabel's face was a maelstrom of confusion and hurt. "Ain't no way he can leave us. We's his family. We's your family, Pally. You cain't just leave." Florabel looked like she'd been stabbed in the heart. Her face plummeted and her eyes pooled.

"Florabel," Emma said impatiently. "Don't be pesterin' him. No carryin' on, remember what I said when he first come here? I'll have none of that," she warned.

The little girl looked back to her mother with a keen sense of betrayal, her face angry and bitter. "You said we wouldn't mourn over someone we didn't know. We know him, Mama!" The little girl pointed at her mother in judgment. "Mama, you's his family! How can you smile?" she asked accusingly. Emma gaped at her daughter's display of temper.

"Don't you take that tone, Florabel Livingston," she said sternly.

The little girl stamped her foot down, her face stormy. "Fix it, Mama! Don't let him go!"

Emma was as pained as her daughter, but she stuffed it down and she plastered an easygoing smile on her face. "No need to fix what ain't broke. He needs to go on his way, baby girl. It's wonderful that he'll be reunited with his brother," she said with an affected casualness.

"Why is you actin' like it don't matter, Mama?!" the little girl shouted ferociously, her eyes icy and frigid. Emma began to say something, but Florabel cut her off. "How can you say it's good when that ain't what you think?! Tell him, Mama! Tell him you love him! Please! Tell him you love him an' he won't leave!"

Emma's eyes blazed. "You put them silly romantic notions right out of your head. I'm your papa's wife, an' don't you be forgettin' that. Now you just stop this display right this very moment. I'm shocked, Florabel. For shame."

Florabel turned scarlet with rage. "You don't care! You don't care what I want! How could you, Mama?! I hate you! I hate you both!" The hard edge of her fury sliced right through them. Emma was completely stunned by the uncharacteristic outburst and her daughter's cutting words. By the time she'd recovered from the shock of her child's tantrum, Florabel had turned and run out the front door, slamming the screen behind her as hard as she could.

"I'll get her," Dean said quietly.

"You cain't. You can barely walk," Emma said, but Dean was already heading out the door.

"This is my doing. I'll go get her," he said and closed the screen door behind him. Emma walked back toward the kitchen and collapsed in the chair that Dean had vacated.

She put her head in her hands and wept without any inhibition, whatsoever. She cried for several minutes, heedless of anything else but her overwhelming sorrow and loss. She never heard the front door open, never heard the footsteps approach, never knew she wasn't alone until a thin, skeletal hand gripped her from behind and lizard-dry fingers clamped over her mouth.

Her panic-stricken eyes searched Slaid's carnivorous beads as she fell back into his strangling embrace. He snaked the other hand tightly around her neck and kept the other on her mouth, preventing her from screaming. He looked gaunt and feral. The stench of rotting flesh and sweat emanated from him, overwhelming her nostrils as she fought for breath. There was an inhuman hunger in his eyes so profound that she began truly praying for the first time since Henry died in her arms. Fear and disgust coiled and twined together, choking her every bit as much as the fingers around her throat. Her chest heaved as she tried to remain calm enough to somehow work her way out of this.

Slaid breathed in her scent, rubbing his nose on her neck and ear. "I've been so patient," he boasted. "Watching and waiting for days so that we could be alone. Looks like the _Ördög_ fighter will pull through even after all my hard work. Doesn't matter. I'll take care of him next." He chuckled and tightened his grasp. Emma reached her hands up and tried to pull at his reptilian fingers, digging into them with her nails, but he only squeezed harder in retaliation. "You shouldn't have pointed that gun at me, bitch. We could have shared so much together. You would have screamed so beautifully for me, just like your little whore did." He looked at her and spit in her face with a hiss. "But you chose the Devil fighter, and I can see there is no changing that now." He constricted her throat tighter, and she started to fight against him. He ruthlessly yanked her back and forth, disorienting her, dragging her to the ground and straddling her.

"Please, no," she whispered hoarsely. Begging him.

"Florabel, now," he explained coolly. "She's young, ya? I can tame her. I can make her mine, eventually." He looked into Emma's terrified eyes and grinned. "She's already mine, don't you know? She has my seed in her. I put it there myself." His words knifed through the air, plunging deep. He laughed hysterically at the look on her face, and he thrust his groin against her, cackling—mocking her devastation. "She was so…tight," he grinned. Emma's eyes widened in horror and fear gave way to deadly anger. She began fighting him with every ounce of her being, biting, screaming, pinching, kicking. Her ferocity took the farmhand by surprise, nearly causing him to lose his grip on her entirely, but a lucky grab through her hair brought her head down violently. Slaid slammed her skull into the floor several times until she was too stunned to fight anymore. He bent down and kissed her lips, his tongue flicking in and out rapidly as her eyes fluttered in her desperate struggle to remain conscious. "Shhh, softly…softly now," he said, quietly stroking her cheek. Ripples of blue light arced along his fingers and spread over her face and ran down the full length of her body. Emma's shrieks of pain were muffled by his clammy hand. He released a small, hissing laugh, like a deadly rattle. He unhitched his overalls and pulled up her dress, his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on her neck. He pressed his scaly lips against her ear as he thrust his hips, savagely forcing his way in. "Florabel loves you so..."

**O**

Dean's vision was blurry, but he could see the trail of dust that Florabel left in her wake as she ran through the sloping dunes. He jogged after her, following the plumes, clutching his chest as he strove to overtake her. "Florabel," he wheezed out. "Stop!"

He could see her several yards away, not far from the tree that had sheltered them during the storm. He watched her look back at him as he ran up. Her eyes were furious and fey. Dean struggled to reach out and grab her by the hand just as she was about to take flight again. He missed and tried once more, snagging her by the straps of her overalls. He pulled her to him, but she fought him wildly, throwing small punches against his legs and stomach.

"Florabel, no!" Dean demanded, but she was out of control. He felt his stitches pull and tear when he picked her up. She continued to beat against him, snorting and seething the whole time, grunting as she kicked her little legs to try and get free. "Stop it, Florabel!" he yelled.

"You—you…" She slammed her fists against his chest. "You don't care!" Dean adjusted her in his arms, trying to get a better grip. He was weak and she was flailing with wild abandon. "How?" she punched his wounded shoulder. "How?!" she pummeled his collar bone. Dean shook her again and grabbed both her fists, holding them against his heart. She bucked crazily. "How…," she cried out, exhausting herself. Her head fell against his neck and she breathed erratically, sobs wrenching themselves free as the rest of her body went limp. "How can you leave me when I love you so?" Her body wracked out a tremor, and she began sobbing pitifully.

The realization of what he'd be leaving behind began to crush him to the ground. He felt his legs buckle and he covered her head as they both slithered into the dust. Dean felt a sharp agony in his shoulder as they jolted to a stop. He cradled her in his arms as she mourned. Florabel's suffering was raw. There was no inner censor, no learned stoicism, nothing to hold her grief in check or to dilute it—no feigned understanding or polite niceties. She wept wholly and completely, her young heart broken utterly, and Dean's heart broke along with it. He held her close and kissed her warm straw-colored braids as she wept. She held onto him as tightly as she had during the dust storm. This time she clung to him out of the sincerest need, the deepest love, a child could feel. Dean rested his chin on her head and mourned as well—mourned her pain and a life that forced these choices on him. His lack of choice, rather. There was no choice for him and never had been. He mourned that all he ever seemed to do was bring pain to others, and now, of all people, Florabel was going to be the next victim of his pathetic life.

Her voice hitched and hiccupped with sobs. "Pal—ly, wh—y? Why would y—ou leave me and Ma—ma?"

He hugged her tight. "Florabel, I know it's hard to understand, but Sam needs me. I have to try and find him."

"I ne—ed you," she said. "Sam ain't even loo—lookin' for you."

"That's not true," he said quietly. "He's looking for me."

"How do you know?" she said and coughed back another sob.

"Because I know my brother. I remember everything now. Sam is looking for me, and he's worried sick."

"Cain't you just find him and bring him ba—back to the farm? He can live here, too," she suggested hopefully.

Dean sighed. "You have no idea how I wish I could," he said, holding her tightly in his arms. "But that's just not possible." The little girl started sobbing again. "Florabel, I'd stay if there was a way. You have to believe me. But Sam is in danger, and I have to try and protect him."

The little girl looked up at him, the florescent blue of her eyes a startling contrast to the red rims from which her tears pooled and dripped dolefully. "But what about…" her face pinched and she reached a hand down to protect herself. "What about Slaid?" she asked. "If'n you leave me, I'll be all alone with him." She started to hyperventilate just thinking about it. She instinctively crossed her legs and crushed them together. Dean grabbed her and held her up to his face.

"I'm not leaving you with Slaid. I won't go anywhere until you're safe," he promised. "But once you and your mama are free of him I have to go find my brother and help him."

"But we need you, too," she said.

"He needs me more," Dean said sadly. "That's why I have to go, sweetheart. Sam's in a lot of trouble right now. He's strong, but you're stronger. You're so strong, and you don't need me the way he does."

"I don't feel strong," she said as she rubbed her leaking nose on her shirt. Dean shook his hand into his sleeve until he created a handkerchief out of the cuff and let her blow.

"You are, though," he said as he dabbed at her nose. "You're one of the strongest people I've ever met. And you're going to help your mama, and you're going to be OK. You'll get through this and then you're gonna go back to school. You're gonna study hard and become a doctor if that's what you want." Florabel looked at him dubiously.

"I'm a girl," she reminded him.

"That only means you're going to be thirty years ahead of all them other girls if you go on and do what you want with your life, now," he said. "You're gonna be a doctor one day. You'll help so many people, Florabel. You'll settle down and get married and have a family. You're going to have what I c…" His voice cracked and he swallowed. "You're going to have what I can't…no matter how much I want it."

"I don't want you to go," she said, finally.

"I don't want to leave. I have to, though. If I can even find a way," he added.

"That don't make no sense, Pally," Florabel said as she fell against his chest.

"I know. But my home is very far away. We're talkin' a completely different time zone," he huffed. "It's going to be difficult to find my way back. I'm going to have to work really hard to get there."

"Will you be able to come an' visit me sometimes?" She looked up at him, eyes flooded with plump tears.

"I live too far away," he said. "It won't be possible."

"Pally…" she started to sob again. "Please, please don't leave me," she begged.

"Hey 'Bel, come on, now," he said patting her back. "How about this?" he offered. "Tonight is a full moon, right?" The little girl nodded. "OK, so anytime you ever see a full moon, that'll be me saying hello. That way we can always keep in touch, yeah?"

The little girl snuffled and her chest hitched, but she didn't cry. "And whenever you see a full moon, Pally, that'll be me sayin' I love you."

Dean took several breaths. "Me too, 'Bel," he said and kissed her hair.

They sat in silence for a few moments, steadying their breathing, each calming the other. Dean ran his hand up and down her back as her hitching sobs eased. The pain in his shoulder was growing and he felt a trickle under his shirt. He looked behind him and saw blood soaking through the fabric. "Come on," he said, finally. "We need to get back to your mama. She needs you, and you need to apologize for how you spoke to her."

"I don't really hate her," Florabel admitted. "I'm sorry."

"Let's go tell her that, then." He stood slowly and took a couple of stiff steps. "I'm not going anywhere today, Florabel, so just be calm and let's not spoil the time we have left."

Florabel took his hand. "I'm sorry I beat on you," she said. "I didn't mean to be bad."

"You're not bad," he said. "You were just upset."

They walked in silence the rest of the way home. Dean had to stop a couple of times just to get enough breath to continue on. He was starting to feel faint from all the exertion and emotion, and he would not be protesting Emma's certain demand that he go back to bed. He was more than ready and willing. He'd worry about Slaid and all the rest of it after he got some sleep. They climbed the steps to the veranda and opened the squeaky screen door. Dean made sure that he closed it behind him quietly. No sense in making Emma more upset than she already was.

"Mama," Florabel called as she slipped in the door. "We's home, I'm sor…" She froze in mid-sentence. Dean was blinking, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. Everything was still hazy, the sunlight having made his eyesight even worse than it was before. He rubbed his temples and tried to focus. He felt Florabel's scream more than he heard it. It thrilled right through him until it buzzed against his spine. The sound was both ear and heart splintering.

"_Mama!_" she wailed tortuously as she ran to where Emma lay motionless under the archway that separated the kitchen from the parlor. Florabel threw herself at her mother. "Mama! Mama! Wake up! Mama!" she screamed. The little girl patted her mother's face, trying to rouse her.

Dean squinted and ran over to them. He swung Florabel off the woman and deposited the child a few feet away. Turning to Emma, he pulled her dress down with one hand, giving the woman her dignity back while placing two fingers at the pulse-point of her brutalized neck with the other. He received a powerful static shock from the touch, but felt no pulse. "Emma!" he called. "Jesus! Emma," he looked her over for injuries beyond her neck. Other than the vicious spread of her legs, he perceived some residual electric charges pulsing in different areas of her body. They quickly dissipated almost as soon as he noticed them. There were tears still drying on her cheek, her eyes half open and completely vacant. Dean straightened her out and tilted her head back giving two quick breaths. "Breathe, Emma," he demanded. He was vaguely aware of Florabel screaming and calling her mother's name over and over again, but his entire awareness tunneled down to just the lifeless woman in front of him. "Emma!" he commanded. He began chest compressions, counting them off until he reached thirty and gave two more breaths. He began the compressions again, and he watched as his own tears spilled onto her chest. "No!" he cried out. "No you don't. God damn you Emma!" he bellowed angrily.

And those were the words that Jeb heard as he ran up the stairs to the door of the house. Slaid had woken him out of a sound sleep, telling him that Dean had done something unspeakable. Slaid had been manic and adamant. Jeb tried to tell him that Emma didn't want him there and to go on about his business, but Slaid had literally dragged him out the door. When he reached the porch steps, he heard Dean yelling and swearing at Emma. He barreled through the door in a panic.

Florabel was standing off to the side, screaming hysterically, calling her mother's name and begging 'Pally' to stop. He looked at Dean straddling Emma and watched in horror as the man he'd considered a friend continued throttling the woman Jeb thought of as a daughter. "Dean!" he called out, but the young man did not answer. He was too intent on thumping his fists against Emma's senseless body. "Stop it! What are you doing?" He moved up and pulled at Dean. Dean looked up completely surprised, not having noticed his presence until that moment. "You's killin' her!"

"Jeb!" Dean tried to pull out of his grip. "No! No! You don't understand. I have to." He pushed the old man away and went back to pounding his hands against Emma. Jeb could hear her ribs breaking.

"Jesus Christ, Dean!" he called out. "Stop! No!"

There was a sudden motion to his right as Slaid swung the black, cast iron kettle he'd retrieved from the stove, slamming it into the side of Dean's head with a sickening crack. The younger man crumpled lifelessly to the floor, blood spilling onto the hardwood as it gushed from his head wound.

"Jesus!" Jeb called out. Florabel was screaming incoherently. "Florabel, child," he called out, but she only screamed louder.

"Mama! Mama! Pally!" She stood rigidly, her body quivering with shock. Slaid reached down for her.

"Don't cry little one," he said, picking her up. The moment he put his hand on her she became animalistic and struggled against him. He only let her go when she sunk her teeth into his arm. "Whore!" he yelped as he dropped her. The little girl bolted from the house, screaming as she ran.

The altercation didn't register for Jeb whose sole focus, eyes and ears, were on the young woman on the floor. "Oh God, Emma," Jeb said, his broken heart thudding loudly in his ears. He could plainly see that she was long gone. "My God, what's he done to you? No, no," he cried, putting his hand on her forehead feeling the warmth that was still there. "Oh, my darling, child." He wept into her broken chest and lifted her into his arms. Looking over at Dean as he lay in an expanding puddle of his own blood, Jeb shook his head in disbelief. "Monster! What have you done?"

Slaid stood behind Jeb as the old man howled in misery. He looked down at his hands that were glowing with a blue light. Things had gone better than his wildest imaginings. He smiled and silently thanked the Hala for its blessing.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	17. Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust

_**A/N: I how a huge debt to my beta's, NongPradu, Numpty, and Beckydaspatz—each of whom took time out from their incredibly busy lives to not only read this story, but to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. I place the highest value on their input, suggestions, and corrections. Thanks again to all three of them for putting up with me during the writing of this chapter. It has now become legendary, and I'm sure none of them will ever forget "The Great Battle of Chapter 17". I swear, I nearly ate this chapter with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes, and children in peril. See chapter 1 for complete listing**_.

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 17: Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust**

**O**

_April 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Jeb cradled Emma gently, his cheek resting on the top of her head as he rocked her quietly. He made small shushing sounds as though to soothe fears or offer comfort in some way, and he remained like that until her body began to cool perceptibly in his arms. Another wave of grief rolled over him, and he clutched her tight, his tears falling into her hair and dissolving as he prepared to let her go. He dreaded laying her out. That would mean that she was gone. Here, in his arms, she was still _present_, still needing the solace and comfort that the old man tried to provide. She'd always been one to hide her own fears and sorrows, brushing off helping hands or shoulders to lean on. The only time he ever saw her truly vulnerable and unable to dissemble her need was when Henry died. Normally, she would bury her own cares in tending to and doing for others, and he had been just one of the many recipients of that generosity. Now, he'd never have the chance to repay her for all that she'd done for him when no one else would. Slaid cut into his thoughts with an impatient sigh.

"We need to finish off the Devil fighter," he said. "The little wh…the little one has run off. We must go to find her soon, ya?" he said as he picked up the large pot he'd used on Dean. He made like he was going to swing it again, but Jeb reached out a hand and grabbed the handle of the pot before Slaid could rev up.

"Y'ain't gonna lam him. We'll leave him to the law for what he done." Jeb yanked the pot out of Slaid's hands. "What the hell is you thinkin'?"

"The law?" Slaid glowered. "We are the law for him. _Ördög_ fighter does not belong here. He has no family. No home, no friends. We do not need the law to teach him lessons, ya? Slaid will gladly teach!" Slaid's smile was impossible to hide—or to miss.

Jeb sighed and rose to his knees, readjusting his grip on Emma, collecting her slight body into his arms. "Let's put this angel in the bedroom for now," he said, stifling a sob. "Go open the door for me." He rose and carried her into Dean's room, laying her out and folding her arms over her torso. He kissed each lid after closing her eyes and smoothed her brow. When he went to straighten her dress, he noticed her underwear bunched around her knees. His brows pleated in complete confusion for a brief second before reality hit him. He slumped onto the bed, his face a tapestry of disgust, grief and shock.

"No!" he wailed, grabbing his palms and fisting them together. He raised them to his forehead and shut his agonized eyes against his anguish. "Oh no, no, please…," he bargained. He bent down over the young woman, smothering himself in her strangle-marks. He was silent for a moment while his shoulders bobbed and shuddered with each contraction of his diaphragm as he wept, soundless except a soft, wheezing hiss coming out of his throat. "Monster!" he hammered out when he'd recovered his breath. He looked at Emma and caressed her cheek. "How could he?" He pulled away from her, looking around helplessly as he tried to make sense of what had happened. The thought of such a violation before her life had been stolen from her was unbearable. And the whole time he'd been napping nearby. A million _if only's_ went through his head in mere seconds.

As he turned to wipe his eyes, he noticed his gun lying on the nightstand where Emma had set it days ago, just after her confrontation with Slaid. He looked at it for a moment, his face rigored with bitter anger. With a growl, he grabbed it and moved quickly to the kitchen where Dean still lay on the floor. He'd not moved a muscle since he'd been hit, and the head wound continued to slowly ooze blood onto the floor. Jeb used his foot to roll him over, exposing his face, half of it painted a sticky, crimson from lying in the puddle. He was completely senseless. Jeb only knew he was alive from the low rumble coming from his chest. How he'd perpetrated such an obscene, salacious act with pneumonia, Jeb had no clue. The old man leaned in and aimed the gun pointblank at Dean's head.

"Why Dean?" he wept brokenly. "She never done you nothin' but good turns—looked after you, helped you, fed you. She never asked for nothin'. She never done nothin' but kindness after kindness for you."

"Pull the trigger," Slaid encouraged, but Jeb wasn't hearing him.

"It don't make no sense! She loved you! Anyone could see that." He re-gripped the gun and winced as he tried to summon the courage to shoot. "I thought maybe you loved her, too."

"Do it, old man," Slaid commanded.

"An' little Florabel loved you—idolized you. Why'd you do it? You went and made that little thing an orphan, took her mama from her, the only thing she had left in this world!" He released a guttural, wordless malediction.

"Shoot him!" Slaid hissed. "We don't need the law," he goaded. "If you won't do it, give me the gun, and I'll take care of him. I'm not afraid to do it. Emma should have let me do it the first day he came here like I wanted to." He snuffed in deep and spat into Dean's face.

Jeb waffled a moment longer. Finally, he slouched and released a staggered sigh, pointing the gun toward the ground. He wiped the tears away. "You bastard," he said mournfully. "Damn you."

"No Jeb!" Slaid whined. "Give me the gun. Let me give Emma and the little one justice!"

Jeb didn't look at the farmhand. "I cain't kill a man. We'll lock him down in the root cellar until we can find Florabel and go fetch Sheriff Burnett out here." He grabbed Dean by the back of his collar and began dragging him toward the door. Once they got him out onto the porch, each man grabbed one of his legs and dragged him down the stairs, but as soon as his head hit the first step, Jeb stopped. He growled out in frustration at himself more than anything else. He wanted to just let Dean get what was coming to him, but it couldn't be at his hands. He stopped and made Slaid readjust and take Dean's arms so that his head was off the ground. They half carried, half dragged him down the dusty path to the barn. Once inside, they pulled him through the syrupy fluids that had been expelled from Penny's bloated corpse where it still lay in her stall. The carcass was covered in hundreds of buzzing flies.

Jeb nodded toward the trapdoor that lay under a pile of hay. "Open the door," Jeb said as he reluctantly hoisted Dean up over his shoulder for the descent into the cellar. He recoiled and grimaced as he approached the hole. "Christ! What's that smell?" Slaid merely shrugged and led the way down, lighting the lamp once he got to the bottom. Once Jeb had cautiously descended the ladder, he bent over, letting Dean slide off his shoulder. The unconscious man landed hard, folding at improbable angles like a broken accordion. Jeb looked around and gagged.

"Christ Almighty," he said in horror.

Slaid held the lantern, edgy and nervous. "It wasn't me," he defended with a snivel. "I haven't been down here in many months!"

"Dear God." He looked at Dean. "I saw him come out of here just before the storm," he said, trying not to breathe. "Ungodly." He looked at the murals. "Unholy," he gasped. "I cain't…," he doubled over and retched right onto a pile of Molly's downy feathers. Jeb recognized them and growled. He pivoted and looked at Dean. "You obscene demon! All this time, it was you?" He wiped sweat off his brow and took a beat to see if he was going to heave again. "My God, how could he have fooled all of us?" Jeb gave Dean a heartbroken look, as though he'd lost more than just Emma. "I trusted you, boy. I believed you was a good man. How could I have been so wrong?" Slaid grinned as the old man bent over, trying to catch his breath.

"I never trusted him, but no one would believe me!" Slaid shouted out dramatically. The farmhand kicked dirt and gore into Dean's face. Slaid laughed and continued to kick more fouled earth onto him. "Ha! This is fun!" he proclaimed. Jeb shook himself free of his rage and noticed the farmhand's idea of fun. He pulled him back.

"None of that. The Sheriff will take him." He coughed and gagged again. "Leave him. We need to find Florabel. The child is wild with grief and fear." He doused the lantern and followed Slaid up out of the cellar. Grabbing a sturdy piece of wood left over from rebuilding the barn, he threaded it through the handles on the trapdoor. "He ain't likely to wake up anytime soon. If'n he does he won't be able to git out of this. Let's go look for the young'un." Jeb trotted out of the barn and began calling Florabel's name.

Slaid chuckled as he looked at the trapdoor. He spun around in awe and wonder, arms outstretched as though a gentle rain was hitting his parched face. "Hala," he crooned. "Slaid is worthy, now, ya?" He shuddered with delight as he stood there, listening to Jeb call for Florabel around the barnyard. Slaid opened his eyes and fell to his knees, diving face first onto the straw floor, prostrating himself until he began rolling and frolicking in mirthful glee.

"Devil fighter," he chuckled. "You could not have made it any easier." He wiped his eyes and collected himself, quieting his laughter. He rose and continued to prowl through the barn, climbing the ladder to the loft until his head was level with the floor. He cranked his neck, looking around. "Are you in here, little one?" he said with a greasy smile. He glanced around him, waiting as though she might answer him. "You will be my little whore, now," he leered, rubbing the front of his trousers. "My whore, and no other's. Not the Devil fighter's, not no one's," he said. "Little whore…?" he sing-songed cloyingly, a licentious gleam in his eye. After a moment he gave up and went back down the ladder. He hurriedly left the barn, wanting to be by Jeb's side, to show how concerned he was and to make sure that Florabel was found. If she disappeared now, all his hard work would have been for nothing. He sobered and jogged into the barnyard.

Florabel sat behind the far bale of hay in the loft, the one Dean had leaned against when she'd told him what she'd wanted most for her birthday exactly one week ago today. She'd been locked inside herself, unaware of anything until Slaid had climbed the ladder. She'd heard every word Slaid had said, then. She could still hear both farmhands calling her name from various directions as they hunted around the farm for her. She wouldn't answer. She couldn't. Hugging her legs close, she tried to be as small and as quiet as possible. She focused her attention on a twisted knot in a piece of wood on the wall, mesmerized by both the dark swirl and the horrific images in her head of her mother's and Dean's dead bodies on the floor. The scene repeated endlessly as she focused on the knot of wood. "Mama," she whispered. "Mama…Mama…Mama…" she chanted as the image played over and over. "Mama…"

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

There was a long pause after Florabel finished telling them the whole story, including the day of her mother's death and the incredible morning after when Slaid had summoned the wind demon. The hunters looked from one to another in stunned, horrified silence. Bobby finally cleared his throat and spoke carefully, almost afraid to break the silence.

"From everything you've told us about what Slaid did, I think we might have a small window of opportunity. We now know, at least, one solid time when and where Slaid manifested the elemental, right down to the date and approximate time.

Sam stopped pacing and turned. "What are we waiting for?" He began heading for the door. "Let's go," he said.

"Hold up, Sam," Bobby said. "We need to make sure we have all our ducks in a row this time. We went in there half cocked last night and we all came close to _goin' down in history_ ourselves. We're going to have to make sure we have all the necessary spell components, and I'm gonna need a few different items in order to alter the spell."

"Spell?" Florabel raised an eyebrow.

Ellen nodded. "It's how we're going to get Dean back. Slaid summoned a wind demon. It's a very low order demon, barely sentient. It's a type of elemental," she added, seeing Florabel's confused expression. "It's mostly energy. Extremely potent. They have been used as bridges or portals by people in the past. Dean fell through one and came out the only way that was open to him."

"You mean the night that Slaid must have first summoned the thing?" Florabel guessed.

"That's what we assume, yes. Thanks to you, we know the portal was open on April 20, 1935. We're going to alter our original retrieval spell so that it grabs him from a point in time, rather than space like we tried last night. It could work. It should work."

"It may have already worked," Bobby said, raising an eyebrow at the other hunters. "I mean, from what you described, it may have already happened on some level. Ain't no way to know for sure until we try."

"Which we need to do, and soon," Sam cut in. "Thanks for all of the information, Dr. Livingston," he said as he moved toward the door again.

"Wait," Florabel said. "If you do git him back, you'll need to git him to a hospital as soon as possible. He has extensive injuries, not to mention that he's suffering from Silicosis. He'll need medical attention immediately."

"Silicosis? What's that?" Sam furrowed his brows.

"It's what we called Dust Pneumonia back in the day. It's a lung disorder. It's also been called _Coal Miner's lung_." Florabel closed her eyes, thinking back. "It's been so long, but I remember that he also had severe head trauma, definitely a concussion if not a skull fracture." She flinched suddenly. "I remember the flies," she shuddered. She opened her eyes and looked at Sam. "You'll need a hospital, preferably one better than the band-aid station we have here in Boise City."

The three hunters glanced at each other worriedly. "Jesus," Bobby said.

"What?" Florabel asked. "What's wrong?"

"It's just that…," Sam ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes in frustration. "Dean is sort of…he's kind of…" he fumbled.

"He's on the outs with the law," Bobby said. "Not for nothing he's done wrong. Sometimes in our line of work people mistake what we're doing for…"

"Grave desecration," said Ellen. Florabel goggled them.

"Credit card fraud," Bobby mused with half a grin. Florabel cocked her head.

"Bank robbery," said Ellen sheepishly. Florabel's jaw hinged.

"Murder," Sam added flatly. Florabel's eyes closed and then boomeranged back open. She coughed.

"Murder?" Are you kidding me?" she asked, her eyes darting from hunter to hunter.

Sam shook his head. "No," he assured her. "So, going to the hospital is not possible right now. It's too dangerous. There was an…incident involving a shapeshifter not long ago."

Florabel looked from hunter to hunter and finally shook her head. "Shapeshifter?"

"It's…" Ellen began.

"Not important right now," Sam cut in.

Florabel nodded, absorbing and moving on as best she could. "OK, then. We'll bring him back here. I'll git supplies from the day clinic. But I may not be enough to help him."

"We all have medical training after a fashion," Bobby said. "Our job often times leaves us to fend for ourselves. We'll help."

"But getting him back is our first priority," Sam said. "So let's go."

"Sam, Jesus, boy, hold on," Bobby grabbed him. "What part of being smart and ready don't you understand? We can't even get into the site for several more hours."

Ellen sighed. "I wish we could have persuaded Gerry to shut it down. It's not safe. Those spirits could attack anyone at any time."

"Gerry?" Florabel piped up. "Gerry Burnett?"

"Yeah, that's him," Sam said. "He threw me out when I tried to convince him that the site was too dangerous for the workers."

Florabel snorted. "The idiot." She stood up. "Take me to that future Darwin Award winner. I'll straighten him out. This is one thing that I can handle." She looked at each in turn. "Well?" She waved them off. "I don't know about you, but I want to see my friend again. Let's git ready and go fetch him."

**O**

_April 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Twilight drenched the barn, trickling into the corners. Florabel could no longer see the knot of wood she'd been staring at. Without its soothing swirls to hold her firm, her thoughts unraveled, and she began to panic. She'd been sitting there for long hours, barely moving, chanting her mama's name and hugging herself. She'd been fascinated by the small knot in the wood, one of the mysterious planks that had shown up with Dean that first night and that they'd used when they fixed the barn. The beam was still golden, with only the bruised knot to upset the sleek grain of the wood. She'd stayed there, frozen in place and in thought, ceasing her chant only when she heard Slaid or Old Jeb calling her name. She'd huddled back in the corner, nearly tunneling into the bale of hay to try and get away from their voices, curling in on herself, trying to make herself as small as she possibly could. The last time she heard them they'd been arguing with each other. She hadn't understood what they'd been saying, though. It was as if she'd forgotten what words meant anymore. The angry sounds jolted through her, sending pangs right down into her toes. Being small and quiet was her only defense.

She hadn't heard them for a while, though, and the darkness slithering into the barn was frightening. There was nothing to look at, nothing to make her not see her mama lying with her dress rumpled up and her panties around her knees—nothing to stop Pally from being killed by Slaid. Nothing to prevent Slaid from finding her and jabbing her until she was dead, too. She tried to rock herself and hum, but it didn't help. Pally was dead. Her mama was dead. _Her mama was dead._ No amount of humming and rocking could help that, and even though she wanted to stay quiet and still, her façade began to crumble. She'd promised never to tell about Slaid jabbing her, but she'd told Pally anyway—and now look what happened. Slaid had jabbed her mama just like he said he would, and he'd killed them both. _He'd killed them both._ It was all her fault. Guilt, terror and grief overwhelmed her, sending her flinching until she threw her arms over her head, trying to protect herself from the image of her mother's half-closed eyes having stared right through her.

It was at that moment, when she was bent to the ground with her hands over her head, cowering, right when she thought that she was going to bust apart that she felt it—a soft, cool breeze tickling the back of her neck. She reached her fingers back there and felt the small hairs drenched in sweat. Another light draft stirred and fluttered by, along with a familiar sound. It was her mama's voice calling her name softly. She was sure of it. For the first time since she'd crawled up into the loft, she stood up and looked over the bale of hay that had sheltered her all this time.

"Mama?" she whispered back.

_Florabel. Baby girl. _

Florabel swallowed and let out a small sigh. "Mama, I cain't see you. Where are you?" she said looking around. She didn't hear an answer so much as she felt it, the sounds penetrating her heart and mind rather than her ears. She listened to what her mama said, and she responded. "OK, Mama. I'm comin'." She moved her aching body toward the ladder and descended slowly. Her pants felt wrong and clingy, and she was startled and mortified to find that she must have wet herself at some point. And here she was, all of eight years old, too. What would people think? She put her hand over the wet mark to hide her shame and ran from the barn.

She could see lantern light coming from the bunkhouse and heard muffled voices. Still angry. Still arguing. She paid them no mind and ran to the front of the house, opening the screen door as quietly as possible, making sure not to let it bang behind her. The house was dark and still as she tiptoed carefully through the parlor as though she were avoiding landmines. She faltered by the spot where her mama had been. Her eyes searched the kitchen floor where Pally had fallen, but he'd been moved, too. Maybe they'd been buried already. The only thing left was a dark puddle of blood. Footprints tracked across it and smeared right into her mama's good parlor rug. The blood scared her and she began to squeal, stopping only when she felt her mama tell her not to think on it. She tried to mind what she was told, but her lip quivered just the same.

The floorboards creaked mournfully as she made her way through the kitchen and down the long hallway, stopping when she saw the still form lying on the bed. She approached quietly and leaned against the mattress, regarding her mama, scanning her from her head to toe. She tried to commit each feature to memory. Crawling onto the bed, she settled herself close and laid her head against her mother's heart. She remained like that for quite a while before she finally spoke.

"I don't hate you, Mama. I shouldn't 'a said that," she whispered at last. She cocked her head as though listening. "I'm glad, Mama," she said, relieved. "I was worried you'd think it were so. It ain't." She quieted and closed her eyes. There was no warmth coming from her mother's body, but she still took comfort from it. Florabel knew that her mother wasn't in there, but it was familiar. So familiar. She rubbed her mother's hand, her fingers serenely ghosting gentle patterns—her mother's hand that had worked so hard for so many years, kneading bread, scrubbing dust off the floor, smoothing her daughter's cheek, braiding her hair, wiping drool from Henry's chin. Florabel held the hand in hers, remembering the little scar that was right at the base of her mama's thumb that she got after a fall from a horse on her fourteenth birthday. The limb was already waxy and stiff, but she kissed the scar, nonetheless. Her head quirked, listening again.

"I'll try and be good," she said in response to something. "But you know me. 'Course Old Jeb says _if'n y'ain't makin' mistakes now an' agin, y'ain't tryin' hard enough!_" she said, using her best 'old man' voice. Her mouth twitched, nearly smiling. She sighed again and pleated her brows. "Mama, is Henry and Papa there?" she asked. She listened and sat up. "But why ain't you goin' to see 'em? Mama?" The little girl was confused. "I thought you'd want to see them gates with gold and diamonds on 'em," she said. "Don't you want to?" She felt another strong gust of wind, and the sheet that was hanging over the window billowed to the floor, allowing light to spill into the room. Florabel scooched down the length of the bed and slipped off the end. Tiptoeing over, she stood in the pool of moonlight, its marrow-white light shawling her as she looked up.

The full moon had risen, its dusty disk chasing all but the brightest stars away for the night. It made her think of Pally and his promise. She began to cry, knowing that Pally was dead. Her face suddenly brightened and she gasped. "He ain't?" She reached up to the cool glass, touching the moon with her fingertips. "But I thought Slaid…," she began but stopped short as though cut off. She swallowed and looked around. Spying her little doctor's kit on the floor, she scooped it up. "I will, Mama. Quick, as a jackrabbit!" she promised breathlessly. All business, she began running around the room, tossing bottles of medicine and the wooden box of skunk oil into her kit. She stopped again, listening. "OK, Mama", she nodded. She pulled off the pillowcase next to her mother's body and dipped it in the bucket of water that was sitting in the corner to keep the dust-sheets wet. She saturated it and pulled it out dripping, twisting it with all of her might and tossing it over her shoulder. Running from the room, she stopped when she reached the door and turned around. She walked back to her mother's body and smoothed back a tendril of hair that lay against her mama's cheek.

"I'll love you forever, Mama," she promised and knelt in to kiss her. "You really should go see Henry and Papa, now." Florabel took one last look and then ran from the room.

She made her way quickly to the barn, noting that the men were still in heated discussion in the bunkhouse. She left them to it, hoping the darkness of the barn would shelter and hide her. When she reached the trapdoor, she had to spend a moment or two trying to dislodge the wooden beam from the door handles. Old Jeb had wedged it in there, and it was almost beyond her strength to shift it. She finally had to sit on her bottom and kick at it with her legs to get it to slide out. She grabbed her doctor's kit and opened the door, letting it close behind her as she descended into the stuffy, rancid darkness.

She found the lamp by touch and grabbed the small box of matches next to it. Placing it carefully on the ground, she tapped a lit match to the twisted wick. She replaced the chimney and set the lamp on the bloody table. The horrors of the room barely registered. She didn't even flinch as she ducked to avoid long tendrils of entrails hanging low from the rafters like tinsel. She only had eyes for Dean as he lay in a heap on the floor. Her mama had told her that he wasn't dead, but he didn't look alive. His head was swathed in blood. It had channeled down his head and pooled in his shirt. The swarm of hungry flies that had been attracted by Penny's corpse were now feasting on his bloody face. The little girl squealed and began shooing them away with the towel, but they relit almost immediately.

She dropped to her knees. "Oh, Pally…," she keened. She could hear his chest bubbling like a gaslight, gurgling as he struggled to breathe through the pneumonia. His head was angled so that his mouth was pressed against his shoulder, and a light foam was soaking into his shirt. She gently moved his head so that he could breathe easier.

"Huhhh" he groaned out, surprising Florabel.

"Pally?" she whiskered her hand over his forehead and matted hair, wiping some of the gore away with the wet cloth, carefully—ever so carefully, as though she were wiping her mama's finest china. The left side of his shirt had been thoroughly saturated with blood that had how dried, leaving it sticky and stiff. She gently pulled the gluey fabric away from his skin.

"Hhhhuuhh," he breathed out again, quieter this time, no more than a spent hum.

"I'm here, Pally. Please wake up, now. Mama says we need to go. It ain't safe for us here." She daubed at the creamy saliva that was trickling from his mouth and wiped some more blood from his head and cheek. She whimpered. "Please, Pally."

His eyelids fluttered briefly, but they wouldn't stay open. Florabel knelt over him and lifted each lid in turn, noticing how cockeyed they looked, the pupil huge in one and the size of a BB in the other. She didn't know what that meant, but it scared her. He was hurt bad, she knew that much. "Pally, if'n Slaid finds us…" She choked on the thought and stifled a sob. She undid a few buttons of his shirt and pulled out the box of skunk oil and small tin of turpentine. She mixed the two, mimicking how her mother always folded them together with her fingertips, smoothing it out into a buttery paste. She gently rubbed it on his chest, and then put a little on her own. "There," she said. "We smell exactly alike now." She snuffled and cupped her small hands on his face. "Please wake up, Pally. I'm scared without you." There was no answer, but his eyelids twitched again briefly. The pungent musk of the skunk oil and heady odor of turpentine must have hit him because his head ticked as though he were trying to move away from her hands.

"Uhhnngh." he moaned out in agony, eyebrows pinched, forehead knotting. He was hurting—bad. Florabel knew that no matter how much danger they were in, he wasn't going to be able to move from the cellar. Not tonight, anyway. She reached into her kit and pulled out the large bottle of Laudanum. Her mama told her never to give him any. It was too dangerous for a little girl to touch. But she remembered that Doc Dawson said that he could have one capful. She unscrewed the bottle and poured enough of the liquid to fill the small cap. She bent over his mouth and pried it open. Tipping the cap over, she let the syrup fall to the back of his throat. He immediately gagged and coughed, spitting back most of the liquid, hitting Florabel right in her face with it.

"Pally, don't," she whimpered, toweling the brown liquid away. She wasn't certain if he'd gotten any in him or not. She was afraid to give him anymore, because he could overdose. Sighing, she capped the bottle. He coughed. Even unconscious his face was still somehow able to convey the misery he was in. Florabel suddenly remembered her mama saying that Laudanum tastes horrible.

"I'm sorry, Pally. I don't got no water," she said sadly. Water. Saying the word triggered her own thirst and soon it became all she could think about. She hesitated a moment before making up her mind. "I'll be right back," she assured him.

Stealing her way to the well, she grabbed a small bucket and filled it with as much water as she could safely carry, drinking deeply herself and wiping her lips. She stood still a moment, listening. There was no sound of the men arguing anymore. That frightened her. If they weren't quarreling, perhaps they were hunting her, and if Slaid caught her without Old Jeb around…

Florabel shivered. She suddenly felt very naked and frightened. The root cellar smelled horrible, but Pally was there, at least, and it wasn't so open. She ran back as fast as she could without spilling the bucket. Being careful to shut the trapdoor quietly, she climbed down the ladder and ran to Dean. "I brung you some water, Pally," she said, kneeling. She pried his mouth open then scooped some water into her hand and tilted it into his mouth. He began choking on that, too.

"I'm sorry, Pally," she cried out in frustration and worry. "Shhh, don't fret now." She tried to roll him over onto his side so that he could breathe easier, but she didn't quite have the strength or leverage. After a moment he stilled, so she let him be. Water would have to wait. She didn't dare try that again. Her mama had always been an expert at getting him to drink when he wasn't awake. The little girl released a quivering sigh as the thought touched off her grief. She opened the large pocket of Dean's bib, she slid the Laudanum bottle inside. Huddling close to him, she coiled herself into the crook of his arm

"Maybe we can try agin later," she said. "It'll be OK, Pally." He gurgled low in his throat. She didn't know if it was an answer or not. She tucked herself against his fevered warmth and clung to him.

"Mama's dead," she told him. "She ain't goin' to Heaven until we's safe." Her face pinched and she finally began to release her grief. Her body went rigid and she convulsed with a shuddering sob. More followed and she was soon so wracked that she shook uncontrollably. She buried her face in Dean's side, wailing for her mother ceaselessly until she'd completely exhausted herself, and even then her body pulsed with contractions and spasms. She finally fell asleep amidst the low groans coming from Dean's throat and the buzzing of fat flies as they gorged themselves on his blood and the other filth that Slaid had thrown on him.

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The rain had finally ceased, and the sky was speckled with blue as the cloud cover weakened. The air was still frosty, though, smoking out of their mouths as the foursome collected in front of the construction site.

Florabel took in her surroundings, but she wasn't seeing the trailer or the half-finished building. Her eyes wandered around, looking for familiar swells and dips of the land, trying to marry this site to her memories.

"It all looks completely different," she said. "I couldn't even tell you where the barn or house once stood." She lifted her small, thin hand to her cheek and shook her head. "I ain't been out here in over seventy years. Lived in this town for all this time other than my college years, and I ain't been back here. Not since that day." Ellen broke her reverie by putting an arm around her shoulder.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go see if we can talk to Gerry." Florabel swallowed and nodded.

They walked up to the trailer door and knocked. When Gerry opened it up his face morphed from friendliness to hostility in less than a second.

"Uh-uh," he said, with an aggressive shake of his head. He pointed to Sam. "You, out of here before I call the cops."

"Cops?" Florabel puckered and spat out. "You damn go-cart racin', mouth-breathing _Jackass_ reject, git your ass in that trailer. You an' me is gonna have a talk." Gerry gawped, noticing the old woman for the first time.

"Aw, Mad Dog, geez," he fussed, an old fear haunting him. The old woman would have none of it. Eyes flaming like cinders, she snapped her fingers and pointed at him as she began maneuvering up the inconveniently high steps.

"Give me your damn hand, ninny. I'm an old woman and only five-foot-two. Didn't your mama teach you any damn manners?"

Gerry sighed and put out his hand to help her up. "Yes ma'am," he said sheepishly. He sighed and turned, allowing Florabel to kick the door closed behind them.

The three hunters waited outside with shit-eating grins on their faces as muffled shouts and unmanly yelps wafted from the trailer. There was one large thump and a strange, whirring crack. All three hunters winced.

"That had to hurt," Bobby snorted. After a few more bangs, Gerry suddenly surfaced, flinging open the trailer door and dropping to the ground. He had his radio to his cheek and he was barking orders as he walked away looking both annoyed and whipped at the same time. A moment later Florabel stood in the doorway with a satisfied nod.

"Right," she said. "So, Gerry says the boys will be cleared out within the hour. They won't reopen until we give them the say-so." Sam came up and helped her down the steps.

"You sure as hell weren't jokin' about handling it," Bobby said.

"Like I said…a woman after my own heart," Ellen added. "So what's the plan?"

Bobby tugged his cap. "We need to pick up a few things before we begin. Ellen, why don't you take Florabel home while Sam and I go get what we need and meet back in about an hour?"

"Like hell," Florabel said. They turned to her in shock. "I ain't a-leavin'. This is my fight as much as yours. More, in fact. I ain't a-budgin'."

"Florabel, this is extremely dangerous. You could get hurt. Dean would kill us if we let anything happen to you. I can hear him now. And you think Gerry had it rough just a moment ago?" Sam put his hand on her shoulder, but Florabel dug her heels in.

"I'm old. I ain't feeble, though. I'm stayin' put. If'n you git him back, he'll need doctorin'. I ain't leavin' him alone, now." She closed her eyes, remembering something. "I ain't gonna ever forget the look on his face at that last moment. He believed he was gonna die, but he didn't stop. He saved me. An' I'm gonna return the favor. I don't care what you say." She opened her eyes. "Ellen, honey, you an' me need to stop at the day-clinic while these boys git what they need. We need a whole lot of supplies and equipment."

"And you can just walk in there and take it?" Ellen said dubiously.

Florabel laughed. "I volunteer there. I have keys. And I can handle anyone who tries to stop us."

Ellen looked at the trailer and watched the activity at the construction site as men started walking toward the parking lot. She nodded. "I can't argue with that," she said with a grin. "Let's go."

Florabel nodded and followed Ellen toward the truck. She stopped by Sam as she passed. She touched his sleeve lightly and looked up into his eyes. "Gittin' back to you was the most important thing in the world to him. We ain't gonna let him down, Sam. We'll git your brother back."

**O**

_April 19, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Awareness kindled slowly, no more than a spark at first—a basal response from his brainstem. There was no thought associated with it, per se, nothing to weigh it against or make a connection with. It was just a singularity—a speck of molten dust in the darkness. Pain. That spark lit a fuse that traveled upward, igniting each lobe in turn as disjointed, proto-thoughts began to accrete.

As he hovered on the cusp of oblivion, Dean's hollow thoughts finally took on enough form for him to recognize something beyond the agony. He could hear a warble, a dirgeful mewl next to him that made his head throb even worse. It sounded like…a cat? A cat was curled at his side, meowing mournfully. He could feel its paws on his cheek, and as much as he wanted to bat it away, he couldn't remember how to lift his hand. The caterwaul hurt, not simply due to the decibel level, but because the sound elicited a deep response from a place beyond the pain. It had weight and meaning. It made him feel a profound sense of loss, somehow, despite not knowing that he ever had anything to lose. The constant lilting kept him bouncing and skimming along the surface of consciousness. He could only drift down so far before the plaintive yowling buoyed him back up. After a long while, the cat stopped crying, the sobs diminishing into hiccups and judders that he could feel in his ribs. The animal uttered one final sigh of misery before stilling.

"_Mama…" _

With that, both Dean and the cat slipped beneath the waves, all thought and pain forgotten.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	18. Hard Travelin'

_**A/N: Numpty, Beckydaspatz, and NongPradu were the incredible betas who scrubbed this story clean. Although they deserve medals, my gratitude will have to do! Thanks so much! **_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes, and children in peril. See chapter 1 for complete listing**_.

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 18: Hard Travelin'**

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Bobby refused to allow Florabel into the shell of the building until the banishing pentagrams and protective circle had been touched up from the previous night's disaster. The old woman and Ellen had returned with the truck-bed loaded with medical supplies. Most of the equipment had already been set up at the farm, ready for their patient. It had worried Bobby how much they'd brought just for triage. He knew the woman was no slouch. She knew her shit. It terrified him to think what shape the boy might be in when they got him back. _If_ they got him back. Despite the chill in the air, Bobby removed his cap and wiped sweat from his hairline. Florabel was standing outside, waiting by the collapsible field-stretcher, ready to enter when given the all-clear. Sam compulsively ran his hand through his hair as he looked at Bobby.

"This is it," Sam said with an anxious glance at the old hunter. "It has to happen this time."

Bobby gave a tight-lipped nod and spray-painted the finishing touches on one of the banishing sigils in the corner.

He nodded to Ellen to bring Florabel in now that everything had been set. All three hunters were a little surprised that there hadn't been any sign of the spirits yet.

"Where are they, Bobby?" Sam stewed, the worry lines on his forehead bending and twisting like a topographical map.

Bobby looked at him and pointed toward Ellen and Florabel walking over. "Steady on, boy. Don't want them to show up until we're ready, anyway." Bobby pointed to the circle. "Step right in there," he said to Florabel as she walked up. She studied the runes and the smoldering herbs within the circle with fascination. She looked at the sky through the collapsed roof; most of it had been shorn away or removed.

"Drafty," she observed dryly. "Is he here yet?"

"Not yet." Bobby said. "All three of you get in. I don't know how long we'll have to w…," he started to say when they were all hit by a rimy blast of air. "Apparently not long," he huffed. "In!" Sam quickly drew Florabel into the circle of protection.

"Finally," Sam said with a look at the elder hunter. "Get him back, Bobby. Please."

The hunters stood, senses fully taut, salt guns poised and ready. Bobby spun around, twisting this way and that, scanning the room for movement. "Where are you, you bastard?" He turned, pivoting in another circular sweep. The blast caught him on his right side, sending him flying toward the inside wall, both the gun and mirror clattering to the floor.

"Bobby!" Sam shouted, jumping out of the circle and running to the downed hunter. His sawed-off flew out of his hand and crashed into the wall-studding behind them. Bobby was able to retrieve the handled mirror that he'd been holding just before Slaid's spirit flickered and bent over the two men. Despite the danger, Bobby breathed a sigh of relief that the mirror had not shattered.

"Time for more fun," Slaid said with a laugh. The spirit aimed another punch of energy at them and sent them flying back.

Florabel had been watching with wide, frightened eyes. She'd been horrified to see the farmhand loom over the men. "Slaid! No!" she yelled.

Hearing the small voice, the ghost spun around. Surprise, shock, and lust criss-crossed his face, rapidly morphing from one emotional response to the next. His mouth perverted itself, stretching impossibly large into an angular, macabre grin as the spirit flit erratically over toward the protective circle. Florabel's stomach tightened and her hand moved down, instinctively seeking to protect herself. Seventy-two years was not long enough to heal some wounds. The old woman backed up when she saw the madness in his face as he approached.

"Little one." He eyed her up and down with twisted admiration and desire. "You've finally returned to me."

**O**

_April 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Dean came to himself again. He was unable to measure or gauge his experience against the passage of time. Hours, minutes, days were still meaningless. The measure was more accurately quantifiable in terms of clarity of thought. And for Dean, clarity was pretty patchy, still. Most thoughts sluiced off soon after formation, puddling and evaporating like rainwater on a summer roof. Both thought and time were erratic and jumpy. One moment the cat would be meowing on one side of him, the next it would be on the other without him ever having been aware of its movement. The only constant was a nonstop Doppler buzz around his ears and soft movements on his face. That never stopped.

There came a point, finally, when he began to recognize words, plucking them out of the babble and hanging onto them for longer periods of time before they swirled away. "Pally", "Mama", and "please" all seemed significant and powerful. He felt his body responding. It ticked and jolted with the words, striving to interact, wanting to establish contact with the voice. He felt something cool on his face, and he leaned into it. It soothed the fire on his skin and dulled the ache in his head.

There was another time-shuffle and the cloth was gone. The little voice he'd been hearing was curled at his side. It seemed desperately insistent that he open his eyes, repeating the request over and over like a mantra. His head hurt so badly; he really wanted to just float in the darkness, but there was urgency and worry in that young voice that compelled him to stay where he was and do as it asked. And so he tried. He struggled to lift his lids. A gasp of breath came from that small, pleading voice.

"That's it. Keep tryin', Pally. I know you can do it," the voice urged.

Pain exploded through his head and he moaned out. "Mmnnuugh!" He felt the voice shift at his side, and all the flies on his face took flight. The little lump that was nestled next to him sat up, removing his heat source. Dean began to shiver uncontrollably.

"Open your eyes, Pally" the voice said excitedly. There was a soft touch on his face, petting him. Small fingers gripped his jaw and shook his head, but that caused sharp barbs to shoot through his skull. He fought to bring his hand up to try and get it to stop.

"Nuhhh," he scolded as his hand fell against the offending limb. The warm digits moved away from his face.

"You awake, Pally?" the small voice said. He suddenly recognized it, though it hurt to try and dig for the name. He felt his hand being held and stroked. "Please. You gotta wake up. I don't know what to do," Florabel said, her voice shaky with need.

_Florabel_

The name suddenly came back to him, and his eyelids snapped open in response. He paid a price for that, however, as a jagged agony exploded in his temple.

"Gnnghhuh," he moaned out. He fought the pull to close his unfocused eyes again. Florabel was next to him, and she sounded scared. He reached out his arm, fumbling it into her. "'Bel," he mumbled and tried to turn his head toward her. That was an unfortunate choice. "Ughggh," he sucked in air rapidly and rode the miserable wave of nausea.

The little girl sniffled and grabbed his hand. "Pally!" she said too loudly. "Can you hear me?" she bellowed. At least it sounded like bellowing to him. "Do you want some water?"

He blinked in response and tried to shift his body. A dripping cloth was pressed between his teeth and he latched on, milking the moisture from it, washing away some of the pasty bitterness in his mouth. Florabel dipped the cloth in fresh water and then lightly daubed his face with it, cooling his heated skin. He swallowed and relaxed into the small relief it provided. Everything was stiff and sore, and the ground was hard beneath him. Why wasn't he in bed? He opened his eyes slowly, not realizing he'd closed them. "Whaa t'm s'it?" he muttered.

"I don't know. I cain't tell, but I think it's tomorrow," Florabel said. She snuggled into him, laying her head on his chest, snuffling against it. "Mama don't want us to stay here, Pally. She says it ain't safe."

"Mmm…Mama?" he said, confused. "Mmm…Emma?" He took a deep breath and tried to think things through. "Whhh'r's Emma?" he asked, wishing she were there now. Her soft, capable hands always soothed and comforted him. Florabel whimpered and turned her face on his chest so that she was looking into his eyes. He could see two of her in the weak lamplight.

"Mama's dead," she said. "Don't you remember, Pally?"

The words penetrated and he jolted with the memory of Emma lying on the floor. Adrenaline flooded his body, and he lurched up only to collapse against Florabel, nearly burying her beneath him. She scurried out of the way just in time as he fell onto his side.

"Ffffuuuuck!" he gasped out. Everything went dark, inconceivable pain and grief pressing him into the dirt floor. He lay panting for a moment while Florabel wept at his side. "Emma," he whispered.

"Mama don't want us to cry, Pally," Florabel said even though her own tears were flowing freely. "She don't want us to be here. Can you git up so's we can go? Mama says it's too dangerous to be here."

Dean tried to lever himself up but failed. Black blobs surged in front of his eyes, lava-lamping up and down in time to the throbs in his head. It took a moment for them to dissipate before he could try to move. With Florabel's help, he was finally able to push off and flop back against the earthen wall.

"Emma?" he said again, confused. Florabel sat on her knees and pet Dean's face.

"Mama says we need to git," she said.

"Says?" He breathed heavily and tried to hold onto his thoughts. His head felt huge and ugly, like one of those lumpy, hairy, toothy tumors. Ghastly and inhuman. Florabel split into four and then rejoined back into two images as he tried to focus on her. His eyes could do no better than two of everything. He had to take a moment to thread his diaphanous thoughts together again. Right. Emma's advice. "Wh'r is she?"

Florabel frowned. "I told you, Pally. Mama's dead." Dean gave her a confused look, and his eyes closed as he slumped into the wall. "Don't go back to sleep, Pally, please!" she begged. His eyes opened, bewildered. "Can you walk?"

He gave her a weak grin. "I dun th'nk m'goin' anywhere, swee'hear'," he sighed and coughed, his eyes bulging in agony. He felt the pain of his chest for the first time. "Ffuck!" he heaved out when he could. "H'rts!" he said as he clumsily rubbed his chest. "Wh'r's Sam?"

Florabel tried to pat him, but she was beginning to lose her composure. Pally was awake, but he was too confused and slow to understand much. She whimpered, pulling at him. "Please talk sense, Pally. Don't be hurt no more. I don't know wh…" she was cut off by voices from above. "Mama!" she gasped the word out in prayer. They'd waited too long. Slaid and Jeb were coming. Florabel looked at Dean, her eyes widening in fear. "Slaid," she gasped, her brows colliding. She began to pant. "Slaid!" she whispered in terror.

The neurons and synapses in Dean's head began firing, connections clicking and sliding into place as he slowly began to comprehend what was happening. He looked at Florabel's huge eyes as the footsteps stopped directly overhead. "Hide," Dean whispered back as he tried to sit up further.

Florabel looked around hopelessly. The cellar was small. The only structures and furniture were the shelves along one of the walls and the big wooden stand toward the back. The few barrels and crates were far too small to offer concealment. Boot-thumps and voices traveled down from above.

"Did you open this?" Jeb's muffled voice asked accusingly. "Did you come back here after I told you to leave him be?"

"I've done nothing!" Slaid's wounded retort filtered down to them. The door handle rattled and pulled. Florabel ran behind the large stand and crouched down, silently praying for her mama's help.

"Who lit the lamp, then?" Jeb said as he descended. Reaching the bottom, his eyes met Dean's and he stopped short. Jeb's face reflected the war within, relief and worry, anger and disgust swirled across his face. "You's awake," he said blandly, choosing a neutral course rather than letting either emotion get the better of him. Slaid climbed down and turned to Dean.

Dean strove for breath. "Jeb," he whispered. He reached out to the man, and despite everything, Jeb felt a lump in his throat. The old man could see his friend in those wounded, exhausted eyes. He knelt down, swatting at the flies that haloed the man's bloodied head, helping Dean to sit up straighter.

"We's gonna git you some help," Jeb said as calmly as he could. "Gonna fetch Sheriff Burnett out here, an' him and his boys'll take care of you." He searched Dean's confused and groggy eyes. Jeb flinched at the sincerity he saw in them. They looked pained and tormented, not at all the eyes of the cold blooded murderer he expected to see. It unsettled Jeb, chipping away at his resolve to remain detached. Dean reached out, attempting to make physical contact with the old man. The double-vision interfered with his depth perception, and he kept misjudging the distance. After several tries, Jeb couldn't help but reach out and grab his hand, anchoring Dean as he strove to speak.

"Jeb," he said weakly, pleading. "M'not th' one," he said short of breath. "Di'n' hur' her. Y'got t'believe me."

Jeb cleared his throat, put off by the man's earnestness, trying to remain detached. "Don't matter what I think, boy. We'll let them smarter folks figure this out." Dean pulled on Jeb's shirt and groaned.

"Nnhuhh, Jeb," he said, his eyes fluttering as he tried to sit up a little more, fighting to stay conscious. "Jeb," he insisted, squinting and bobbling as he searched for his train of thought. "Slai' ki…" his voice hitched, weakening. "Kill' Emma. N'me. Please, Jeb. Don' care 'bout me. But Flor'bel, Jeb, y'got t'help her."

Jeb had bent in close to try and catch the slurred words, some of them so badly mangled he could only understand fragments. "Slaid?" He gripped Dean's hand as it tugged on him. "What about him? What about Florabel? We's gonna find her an' she'll be fine, now," he assured.

"Nuhhnh." The wounded man tried to get the breath to continue on. "Slai' killed…" Slaid kicked Dean in the side harshly, sending him sprawling, his eyes wide with surprise and pain. Before Dean could recover or Jeb could react to Slaid's unnecessary violence, there was a small squeal from behind the wooden stand. Slaid turned immediately.

"Slai'," Dean called out loud enough to send barbs of pain shooting through his skull. He gulped down the agony as he tried to keep Slaid's attention, but the farmhand was already walking toward the table. "Nuhh, don'," Dean kicked out with his foot, scraping the dirt in fear and frustration, trying to trip the farmhand but not even getting close.

Slaid reached down. "Well, hello there, little one," he said as he pulled Florabel up. She began wailing and kicking at him. Jeb ran over immediately. Dean tried to get up, but vertigo leveled him and he fell face first into an old rabbit carcass.

"Florabel!" Jeb tried to pull her away from the farmhand. She noticed him and reached out, clutching onto his shoulder.

"Old Jeb!" she screamed frantically. "Don't let him take me! Mama! Pally! Help me!"

"Let her go, Slaid," Jeb said. "Jesus, boy! She's out of her head. You's scaring her." He grabbed the child and held her close. She was chuffing frantically, eyes wild as they ping-ponged mindlessly around the room. She was on the edge of hysteria. "There, there," Jeb held her. "It's all right, doll. I've got you. Calm down, sweetheart. We was worried sick about you."

Slaid bent down and grabbed Dean by the back of his collar, pulling him upright and shoving him into the wall. The hunter grunted feebly, his eyes rolling back as he flirted with unconsciousness. Slaid bent down and pulled him up higher by his hair, swaying him back and forth as he slapped the man's cheek, laughing riotously when Dean tried to grab Slaid's hand and repeatedly missed. Dean wheezed in agony.

"Devil fighter is still half asleep," he laughed. He slapped Dean harder. "Wake up, you!"

"No! Old Jeb," Florabel begged. "Don't let Slaid hurt him! Please," she sobbed. She struggled to get down, but the old farmer held her tight.

"Slaid, knock it off!" Jeb yelled angrily. Slaid turned and gave Jeb a devious grin before standing up. He continued to nudge Dean's head with his boot until the wounded man finally groaned out in pain. Jeb lunged for Slaid and pulled him away. "I said stop!" Florabel was still fighting to be put down. The old farmer hoisted her higher into his arms and tried to cradle her head into his chest. "I waited until we found the child like you asked. But we's gonna go git the law out here, now," he said forcefully. He tried to hold onto Florabel as she squirmed and fought to get out of his arms. "You don't want to go near him, Florabel. You stay with us, sweetheart." She continued to kick her little legs like an Olympic swimmer.

"No! Let me go! It weren't him! Pally didn't do nothin' wrong!" she shouted.

Slaid scoffed. "The child is crazed," he said with a nervous laugh.

"It weren't Pally. He was with me by the tree. We came home and found Mama that a-way. He didn't hurt her," she yelled adamantly, trying to wrench away from the old man. He finally released her. She ran to Dean and tried to grab him as he started to fall over. She spun around, her eyes molten. "Why won't you believe me?"

"But," Jeb faltered. "That don't make no sense."

Slaid cut in. "She's bewitched," he said, pointing at the child. "She's under his spell."

"No I ain't neither!" she yelled, straining to keep Dean upright.

"We saw him," Jeb gently condescended. "Sweetheart, we saw him with your Mama." His breath hitched with the memory of it.

"CPR," Dean slurred out. He opened his eyes and struggled to turn his head to face Jeb.

"What?" The old man said.

"CPR," Dean repeated. "S'a 'suss'tation technique," he sighed wearily. "Pro'lly not invented yet." Despite Florabel's efforts to keep him upright, his eyes closed and he slid sideways until he was lying face down in the urine scented dust. His stomach heaved and he added some bile to the dirt that was so caked with blood, gore and rot that it was nothing more than a crusty, miasmic clay.

Jeb looked at Slaid. "Wh—what's he sayin'? What's CPR?" he stuttered.

"Don't pay attention to him," Slaid vented with manic agitation. "Look at this place." He gestured about him. "See what he is?" He placed his boot on the back of Dean's head, pressing it into the filthy floor as he laughed. Florabel screamed in outrage.

"You, leave him be!" she growled out. "Why is you here? Mama tol' you to git, but you wouldn't. Why's you here?" She ran to the older man. He bent down to her. "Old Jeb, you got to believe me. Pally didn't do nothin'," she reached up and touched his face. "You know him. I know you know him, Old Jeb."

The old farmer huffed out a breath and put his hand in his hair, pulling at the tips, trying to make sense of what she was saying and what he'd witnessed.

"She'll say anything to protect him," Slaid said becoming more agitated. "He's put a spell on her." The farmhand began to pace the floor, growling low in his throat.

"You hurt Mama an' blamed Pally for it." She looked at Dean and made a decision. Turning to the old farmer, she sucked in a breath. "I know Slaid hurt Mama, because he…," she swallowed. "Because he hurt me, too. Slaid hurt me, Old Jeb—when Henry died and you was lookin' after Mama. He took me to the bunkhouse and he hurt me…here." She pointed to her privates. Jeb's intake of breath cut the sudden silence in the room. "He jabbed me so hard," she said, and she began to cry. "He told me never to tell or he'd hurt you and Mama, and now she's dead. I don't want Slaid to jab you, but it's the truth. Pally didn't do nothing, Old Jeb, please believe me."

"She lies!" Slaid yelled shrilly, pacing back and forth like a hunted animal as Jeb tried to process what he'd just been told. Slaid stopped suddenly. "I've heard enough." He went over to Dean and pulled him up to his knees. He looked at Jeb. "I don't care what you say anymore old man. I'm finishing this. This Devil is putting lies in her head!" Florabel yanked his arm, screaming.

"Stay away from him!" she yelled, her small hands balled into fists. She pounded on the farmhand furiously. "Git away!" Slaid's swift backhand was so forceful and unexpected that Florabel went sprawling into a heap by the table. She put a hand clumsily to her cheek, not realizing that she'd even been struck.

"What the blazes?" Jeb yelled, utterly shocked and appalled. He went to grab Slaid, but the farmhand pushed him away roughly. The feel of the child's flesh against his, the crack of his hand striking her face unraveled something in Slaid, and a heady rush of power and lust overtook him. His hardened shaft snaked painfully in his pants. He no longer held back. These people didn't know who they were dealing with. The Hala was at _his _command. He was the master, and they would soon learn to treat him with respect. It would have been nice to have the old man believe that the Devil fighter had killed the bitch, but in the end it wouldn't matter. If he had to put the farmer down, too, so be it. He turned and kicked more dirt and feces into Dean's face. Turning, he saw Jeb move cautiously over to help Florabel.

"Get away from my whore," he snapped. "She's mine. As soon as the Devil fighter's spell is broken, she will want me."

"What in the hell are you going on about?" Jeb gasped. He looked at Slaid standing there, twitching and ticking with excitement. He rose and faced the farmhand. "Did you do it, Slaid?" Jeb's voice held a dark threat. "Did you do what she said?"

Slaid folded his arms over his chest and smirked. "I can do whatever I like with my property," he said casually, examining his fingernails. He looked at Jeb and stomped his foot toward him in a mock attack, startling the older man, causing him to recoil. Slaid literally slapped his thigh and laughed. "Your eyes, old man. So big!" he laughed, imitating Jeb's horror by gasping and bulging out his eyes.

Jeb backed away. "Something's come undone in your mind, boy," he said cautiously. The old man tried again to move toward the child, but Slaid put his finger in the air and wagged it back and forth.

"Ah-ah," he said and pointed to Florabel. "_My_ whore." Before Slaid could add anything else, his knees buckled as Dean kicked them from behind, throwing him off balance. Slaid grunted and somersaulted out of the way, while Jeb ran to Florabel. Slaid turned and gripped Dean by his shirt and slammed him into the wall. "Stay put, Devil fighter. You don't look so good," he chuckled. Dean tried to grab for him, but he missed him by several inches.

"Fuck! Slaid, stop!" Dean tried to get the madman's attention away from the others. It didn't work.

Slaid knew there was no real danger coming from the Devil fighter. He was barely holding onto consciousness. The farmhand turned just as Jeb was bending down to Florabel. "Stay away!" he growled, catching the old farmer with his fist and sending him tripping into the corner, dazed. Blood spilled freely from the old man's lip. Slaid cheered for himself and danced around the room like prize fighter.

"I don't need you anymore," Slaid said as he strutted around. He turned and grabbed Dean roughly. "Now, I'm going to break this spell and take my whore away from here." He began dragging Dean to the ladder. "I don't need you."

Jeb stared at Slaid in disbelief, his mind only half understanding what he was saying. Florabel got up and ran to Dean, latching onto him as Slaid pulled him away. Dean tried to shake her off.

"No, Florabel," Dean choked out. "Run, when y'can," he told her. "Jus' run."

"No! I ain't leavin' you," she yelled. "Slaid don't do it! Don't hurt him! Please!" Slaid growled and pushed her away as he began hoisting Dean up the ladder.

"Jesus Christ, Slaid, STOP!" Jeb yelled, trying to rise. He began digging in his pocket and pulled out the gun he'd leant to Dean. He pointed it at the farmhand, but the older man's adrenaline and fear caused the gun to rattle and shake impotently in his hand. "Don't do this!" he begged.

Florabel kept pulling on Dean, trying to stop him. "Slaid," she shouted above the din. "I'll be your whore. Just don't kill him!"

Slaid stopped and looked at her. The room was suddenly doused in stunned silence until Dean shouted out.

"Florabel, no!" he yelled.

"Slaid," she said. "I'll go with you. I'll let you jab me." Her legs began to shake and her teeth chattered as she released a sob. "I won't never leave you. Don't kill him." She reached her hand up and brushed it across Slaid's knee, pleading with all of her might. "I'll be whatever you want."

Dean came to life and tried to get his legs under him. "Florabel," he panted out. "Ge' away from 'im," he demanded, but the little girl didn't listen.

Slaid made eye contact with the child and saw in her eyes that the offer was genuine. He had her. He let go of the hunter and watched him slither to the floor. He couldn't suppress the abdominal twinge of desire he felt when Dean screamed out in pain and frustration. He really did wish he could keep them both.

"No!" Dean yelled.

Slaid laughed cruelly, grabbed the straps of Florabel's overalls and yanked her up, ascending the ladder as the child dangled like a carpetbag in his hands. With a husky grunt, Slaid disappeared through the trapdoor and slammed it behind him.

"Florabel!" Dean called out in vain.

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The spirit advanced with a roar, throwing himself at the old woman. He hit the barrier and ricocheted off the invisible boundary. Slaid growled. Undaunted, he tried again with the same result. A snarl of frustration reverberated around the room.

"Whore," he snapped. "Come here." His tone was commanding and adamant.

"Do you still think you can own me, Slaid? You think summoning this thing would have ever made Mama or me care for you?" She drew herself up. "They ain't no demon in the world that could have made us belong to you."

"The _Ördög_ fighter made you believe that," the spirit said. "He ruined you."

Florabel came close to the edge of the protective ring, looking up at the spirit with bitter disgust. "No," she said. "He had nothin' to do with it. The only power he ever had was his own goodness and caring, something you never had, Slaid. You tried to take what you wanted without a thought for anyone else. Even if Pally had never shown up, I still would not have been yours, nor Mama, neither."

Sam helped Bobby up off of the floor. Gripping his ribs painfully, he reached for his gun. "It's over Slaid," Sam said.

The ghost spun around. "No, Devil fighter." He began to stretch his hands apart, tossing cold lightening back and forth between them, like a magician pulling and flicking a deck of cards from one hand to the other. "It will never be over. The Hala is mine, at least. It does what I say."

Had the building been in better repair, another wall would surely have given way. With the outer walls completely gone, however, the Cyclone did not do as much damage when it appeared at the back of the structure. Slaid flung out his hands and attached to it, feeding it as it grew in intensity.

"Inside the circle," Bobby told Sam. "Hurry. It's almost time! Keep the salt guns ready and don't shoot until I tell you. We'll deal with the spirits another day. Just put them off for now."

Florabel watched with a faint heart as the black cloud took shape, memories overwhelming her. She shook her head in disbelief. Seventy two years had passed and she still felt as helpless and terrified as she'd been on that horrible day, long ago. She was so focused on the horror of the storm that she didn't notice the other spirit as it entered the room, jumping and flashing from one place to the other. It stopped about midway between the Cyclone and the hunters and circled back, bumping into the protective field around the circle. It hit it a few times, like a bee bouncing against a glass window to try and get outside.

"Back," Bobby warned them. Ellen gripped Florabel and pulled her away.

"Don't step outside the circle," Ellen shouted over the wind.

"What's happening?" Sam yelled. "Why isn't it attaching to the Cyclone?"

Bobby watched. "I don't know!" He shouldered his gun and pointed it at the wobbling image that stuttered around the protective circle.

The wind began to splinter the inner wall and debris started to fly.

"Down!" Sam shouted as he shielded Florabel with his body.

When a large piece of wood flew over their heads, the wayward spirit spun, finally throwing out a strand of electricity and attaching to the Cyclone.

"There!" Bobby shouted and turned, lifting the mirror. When the blazing core of the Cyclone began to expel its light, Bobby turned the mirror around, throwing the light back onto the wind demon and the spirits. There was a shattering crack when the portal split open and Bobby held on for dear life. With a slow, deliberate voice, he began intoning the retrieval spell.

**O**

_April 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Dean attempted to rise, but he merely lurched like a toddler coming off a merry-go-round. His effort to walk forward only took him sideways, and he just missed cracking his skull on the altar. Jeb ran to him.

"No," Dean said, grabbing his shirt. "Help her." He pointed to the gun in Jeb's hand. "Stop 'im. Now, or s'gonna be too late," he begged.

Jeb waffled. "I—I don't know as I'm steady enough to pull the trigger," he said, looking at his violently quaking hands. He stood up looking at the trapdoor above, his chest heaving with shock and terror.

"Jeb, hurry." Dean reached up his hand. Florabel's screams could be heard as Slaid moved overhead. "Help me up." He pointed to the weapon in the old man's unsteady hand. "Gimme." The old man gave him a determined nod.

"I got you, son." He gripped him, and shouldering him in a fireman's carry, he moved up the stairs as quickly as he could.

Luckily, Slaid had been in too much of a hurry to block the door. Jeb pushed it up with his head, surfacing like a prairie dog. Once he was up, he tried to get Dean to stand on his legs as best he could. He put his arm around his waist and pulled him along.

"Gun," Dean said, desperately trying to ignore the splintering pain in his head. Adrenaline was keeping him upright and conscious at this point, but there was no telling how long that would last. His head was the only part of his body that he seemed to be aware of, and it was sheer agony. Jeb handed him the weapon, and Dean looked down, begging his eyes to cooperate, but he continued to see two blurry guns in his hand.

"Fuck" he said. He held the gun tightly and nodded toward the door. "Go."

Jeb hefted him and moved from the barn into the desolate yard. If the sun had not been hidden by blowing dust, Dean surely would have passed out. He put his hand up to his head to try and shield himself. The light scored through his brain, and he kept his eyes shut as much as he could.

Jeb adjusted him in his grip and pointed. "Over there," he said. "There they are, by the bunkhouse."

Dean opened his eyes and tried to focus. He could see two smudges in the distance, and he tried to move his wobbly legs faster. "Slaid!" he called out weakly. The farmhand turned briefly before moving again.

Dean held the gun up and shot in the air. "Stop!" he said. Slaid froze and turned with a growl. Jeb continued to bring Dean closer until they were no more than fifty paces apart.

"Let her go, Slaid," Dean wheezed out. He concentrated on bringing the two images together, close enough to draw a bead. He knew he couldn't risk a shot in his condition with Florabel so close, but for now Slaid was at least daunted by the gun.

Slaid shifted the little girl in his arms as she struggled and screamed. "My whore," he seethed out covetously. "She was always mine." He tossed her over his shoulder, freeing one of his hands. As he spoke his hand began to glow metallic-blue, rivulets of electricity running up his arm. "I will have her," he said with a grin. "Hala can have you." In a clamorous voice he chanted loudly.

"_Én itt beidéz, Hala. A szél az Ördög!" _

A jagged bolt of electricity stabbed the ground not far behind Jeb and Dean. Dust began to billow and blow past them furiously. Florabel shrieked in terror as she watched the blackest dust-devil she'd ever seen form behind the two men. Whips of lightening lashed out from the dark twister, snaking through the air as though it was searching for a mark.

"Shit," Dean said. Slaid began to jog away, and Dean was forced to waste another bullet with a warning shot. It brought Slaid to a halt again. "Florabel!" Dean called out. Fingers and spines of electricity began to crawl along the ground toward the two men. The currents connected with Dean, and threads of electricity began to run up and down his legs and arms. Jeb let go of him in fear and surprise. The hunter dropped to his knees.

"Dear God!" Jeb said, watching two of the groping whips flick out and fasten themselves to the back of Dean's head. The old man reached out to pull Dean away, but let out a guttural shout as a powerful shock sent him sprawling into the dirt. He watched, terrified, as the young man's body began to pulse with blue-white light. Jeb got to his feet and made to grab at Dean again, but he was waved away.

"Don't touch me," Dean ground out. "Move back."

"Son...no!" Jeb saw the agony in Dean's eyes as the young man continued to wave him off.

"G'back and help Florabel," he demanded. Jeb reluctantly backed away as the black dust cloud inched closer.

"Nhhghh!" Dean cried out and scrabbled for the gun that he'd dropped in the dust. Something was happening. He looked behind him and noticed the core of the Cyclone glowing. "Oh God, Sammy," he whispered, horrified as he tried to crawl away on his own. He looked at Slaid who was now rooted, fascinated by the destructive force of the wind-demon. Dean raised the gun. "Florabel!" he shouted again. Spears of hot pain began to shoot through him, and his body went rigid as more currents hooked onto him.

"Pally!" Florabel screamed. "Pally!" She saw that both Dean and the strange, black cloud were glowing and throbbing in unison. Another lasso of lightening reached out and attached itself to him, and his back arched as though he'd been shot. He screamed in pain. She needed to help him. With all of her strength she began to fight Slaid. She bit into his shoulder, but he only grabbed her by the hair and slapped her harder than he had in the cellar.

"Florabel!" Dean cried out, exhausted and beaten. He tried to crawl away from the Cyclone. He didn't feel the pull of the wind like he had last time. Yet, there was still a force grabbing at him. He could feel a tugging in the core of his being, as though he was being pulled by a magnet. He tried to concentrate on Slaid and the child, but his senses were reeling, and he began to be overwhelmed by the sound of hummingbirds. Thousands of them. He pointed the gun between the two images of Slaid that he was seeing. "Florabel," he commanded as loud as he could. "Kick him in the jabber!"

With that, Florabel acted quickly and she leveraged her leg, pivoting it out as far as she could get it, and swung it down with all the might she could muster. She felt her hard shoe find its fleshy mark, and she tumbled from Slaid's arms as he collapsed in a windless heap. Florabel scurried away and started running toward Dean.

"Pally!" she yelled as she ran, but before she could reach him, Jeb intercepted her and pulled her toward the back of the barn. Florabel fought the old man, but he held her firm.

Dean looked back at the Cyclone vacuuming up the dust as it bore down upon him. He tried to stand up, but the force compelling him would not allow him to get his legs under him. The sound of hummingbirds grew louder. He felt them as much as heard them, pulling at his solar plexus. His hands shook and even the gun he held began to glow with electricity. Time was running out. He looked over to Slaid who was rising to his knees.

"Hala," Slaid coughed out. "I'll have the whore once you're gone," he shouted bitterly at Dean. "She's mine!" He began stretching electric currents between his hands.

Dean aimed, relying on his years of experience and training to overcome the concussion. Digging as deep as he possibly could, he focused completely on the monster in front of him, internally making calculations and corrections for his eyesight, recalibrating his aim to compensate for the double-vision. With the last of his strength, he shot twice and felt an absolute sense of gratification as he watched the farmhand's head snap back and his body plummet lifelessly into the dust.

"Told ya you weren't getting much older, fucker!" Dean huffed out weakly. Another wave of energy coursed through him. "Naahghh, Sam!" he screamed in pain. He looked at Florabel as the child threw out her arms toward him.

"Pally, NO!"

Dean tried one more time to get away from the Cyclone, but he fell, his hands clawing the dirt for purchase. His senses began to dull, and he looked into Florabel's eyes as his strength faltered. "Sorry kiddo," he said. There was no more fight in him. The hummingbirds pulled at him and the planet began to spin. His shoulders sagged and the gun dropped from his glowing hand.

"Mmnuhh!" he groaned out as the currents thrilled his body. He couldn't feel anything but pain and the pressure of the hummingbirds. Several other electric tentacles flew out and noosed him. His muscles seized and he bucked and jounced like a marionette on a string. Still more tethers swung out and hooked themselves into him. "Sam!" he cried out in pain and disorientation. He heard Florabel scream, echoing his suffering. He looked over to her one last time. "Love you, Florabel," he called to her as webs of electricity netted him, pulling him directly into the core of the Cylcone. There was a popping release of pressure in his head as he capitulated to the elemental, and he felt as though he was being cremated. He was keenly aware of his body's disintegration as the vortex drew him in. The last conscious image he saw before his eyes turned into globes of light was Florabel nestled safely in Jeb's arms. The sight filled him with both regret and relief in equal measure. Then, light and darkness fused, burning away every thought he ever had, leaving nothing behind but the roaring wind.

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The inside wall gave way, sending debris spinning through the air and swirling out onto the prairie as though expelled from a giant confetti canon. The air began to crackle and snap with electricity, blue veins groped along the ground and up the last standing wall. A clap of thunder shook the building and the Cyclone literally turned inside out, becoming a crystal, spinning nucleus of light. Bobby chanted the final words of the spell, and all four of the onlookers instinctively snapped their eyes shut against the brilliant beam of light that exploded forth like a quasar. A shockwave of dust blasted out, nearly sending Bobby into the wall. He held on to the one surviving post and watched as a body tumbled out of the light, landing in a graceless pile on top of some crumbled pieces of drywall. Blue arcs of electricity crackled and rippled over it and then dissipated.

"Sam! Ellen!" Bobby shouted at the top of his lungs. "Get ready to shoot! We won't have much time once they're gone." Bobby threw the mirror down, and pulled a dagger out of the sheath that hung from his belt. As soon as he saw the two hunters take aim he steadied. "NOW!"

Ellen and Sam shot as one, each hitting their mark dead on. Both spirits collapsed and dissolved into coiling eddies of astral dust.

Bobby wasted no time. He turned to the east, touched his forehead and shouted. _"Eheieh!"_ Pointing the dagger toward the ground he chanted. _"Malkuth!"_ He continued the banishing ritual as Sam watched the Cyclone start to diminish without its power source.

"Hurry Bobby!" he shouted in horror. "It's disappearing!"

"_Le-Olahm Iao!"_ Bobby shouted, completed a counterclockwise circle and faced east once more. He traced a pentagram in the air. _"Eheieh!"_ he shouted in a thundering voice.

The Cyclone froze as though someone had stopped time or hit a pause button. The wind did not merely diminish, it completely ceased in an instant.

"What the…" Sam marveled.

"Don't move!" Bobby boomed out a warning to the others. He tossed the dagger in the air, and catching it by the blade, he threw it full force into the static elemental. With a soft snick, all sound and light seemed to be sucked into a vacuum as the entire Cyclone collapsed in on itself. Then, with a splintering crack it exploded like a supernova, shattering into a million pieces of light. The onlookers ducked and covered their heads, but the shrapnel had no form or matter. The debris disappeared like the sparks of a firework. Absolute silence descended as everyone tried to catch their breath. Sam was the first to recover from the stunned awe.

"Dean!" he shouted as he ran over to the figure on the floor. As he approached, though, panic overtook him. "It's not him! Fuck! Bobby! It's not Dean!" he shouted. The other three ran over. The body was completely unrecognizable, too thin and gaunt, skinny arms and legs askew. It couldn't be Dean. It looked nothing like him. He knelt down and turned the man over and gasped.

"My God," Ellen put her hand to her mouth.

"Jesus, boy," Bobby said as he knelt down and checked the man's pulse.

Sam looked devastated. "Dean," he said. His brother was nearly skeletal, his head coated in blood and filth. He looked at Bobby. "Is he breathing?" Bobby pulled his hand back. "Is he breathing, Bobby?" The older hunter swallowed and nodded as he began taking stock of his injuries.

"He's breathing, but we need to get him out of here and back to the Doc's." Bobby adjusted his hat and wondered if they'd made the right choice about not taking him to a hospital. He shuddered and twitched his nose. "What the hell is that smell?" Both Ellen and Sam recoiled from the stench.

Florabel, who'd remained completely silent the whole time laughed through her tears. They turned to her as though she'd lost her mind. Her eyes were agonized with worry and filled with love as she looked at Dean. She bent down and touched his brow softly.

"What's so funny?" Sam asked.

"The smell," Florabel said, smiling at an old memory. She looked up at them. "I'd forgotten," she grinned. "It's skunk oil and turpentine."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	19. Dust Bowl Refugee

_**A/N: This story was beta'd by three amazing women: Beckydaspatz, NongPradu, and Numpty. Beyond cleaning up each draft, they have all been incredibly encouraging when I was nagged with self-doubt, unbelievably sensitive when I was being crazy, and mind-bogglingly supportive when I was frustrated! You girls are the best!**_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes, and children in peril. See chapter 1 for complete listing**_.

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 19: Dust Bowl Refugee**

**O**

_February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Sam and Bobby kept their guns poised and their bodies rigid and alert as Ellen ran for the field-stretcher. Florabel paid little heed to anything, her focus entirely on Dean as she gently examined him, lifting his lids and shining her penlight into his eyes.

"He's badly concussed," she said, her brows meeting anxiously. She cautiously turned his head to look at the impact wound. "Oh Pally," she said sadly and rechecked his pulse. "Weak," she announced. Ellen came running up.

"We need to get him out of here right away," Sam said. "We can do triage away from the building. We can't be too close."

Florabel looked up. "What are you going to do about Slaid?" she asked.

"We're going to have to find his bones and burn them. But we'll deal with the spirits later. We need to get Dean out of here and stabilized first." Ellen and Bobby were already wedging the board underneath him, carefully.

"I got it, Ellen," Sam said as he went to take the grips by Dean's feet.

"Like hell you do. Not with them ribs. Does it look like I'm gonna break?" She waved him off. "Let's go Singer," she said to Bobby. The two lifted and began moving Dean out. Sam brought up the rear, gun sweeping from side to side as he backed out. He was certain that he saw a spirit flicker clearly into view as they crossed the threshold. He stopped, stunned, but the spirit seemed to sense its sudden visibility and blinked out again. It was definitely _not_ Slaid. The young hunter sighed and quickly left the building, catching up with Florabel and the others as they moved away from the building as quickly as they could.

They spent just a few very rushed moments at the site. Getting Dean out of there was the hunters' first priority. Florabel started Dean on oxygen and had Ellen start an IV. His blood pressure was very low and Dean was not responding to any stimuli at all. Florabel was flustered as they picked up the stretcher and were back on the move again, quickly carrying their burden to the truck. She trotted beside the stretcher as fast as she could.

"You think he rebooted, Bobby?" Sam asked. The older hunter sighed and gave a nodding shrug.

"I expect so," he guessed. He looked at Sam's face. "We'll bring him back. Won't take two months this time, either. He's got us to help him. It'll be all right."

Ellen and Bobby lifted the stretcher onto the truck-bed and slid it in. Once in, Sam and Ellen crawled into the back of the cab and piled several warm blankets on Dean.

"You ride up in the cab with me, Doc," Bobby said. "It'll just take a few minutes to get back to your place. Come on," he said, coaxing her. "They'll keep him safe until we get there."

Florabel looked up distractedly and gave a stiff nod. Her eyes went back to Dean briefly but then she nodded again. "Right," she said, coming out of her thoughts and turning. She allowed Bobby to help her into the truck. The old woman turned back and kept an eye on the three hunters. Ellen gave a thumbs up, telling them to go, and Bobby pulled away, driving as fast as he dare. Florabel felt overwhelmed—fragile and old—as she looked at Dean. It startled her how different he looked and, yet, how decidedly the same he was. It was as though someone had highlighted all his edges, making him appear crisper and more quintessentially _him_ than she ever remembered. She internally tried to connect this version of the man to the one in her memory. As clear as he had remained in her heart and mind, the genuine article was far more startling and profound. Memories stabbed her, steel-needle sharp. She turned around, facing front but not seeing the road ahead of her.

**O**

_April 20, 1935—Boise City, Oklahoma_

"Pally, NO!" Florabel screamed as the Dust Devil writhed, flinging out a hundred threads of light and hooking themselves onto the man even as he tried desperately to scrabble away. She watched him sag at last, knowing there was no escape.

"Sorry kiddo," he said, barely audible amidst the roaring cyclone behind him. More lines of light flew out and lashed him painfully, and he cried out for his brother pitifully. Florabel couldn't help but cry with him as she fought against the gentle arms holding her. The ground suddenly started to shake and hum as the strands of light turned liquid, spreading all over Dean in a huge net.

"Love you, Florabel," he said, his eyes soft and sad. He gasped one final time as his entire body burst into crystal light and was dragged into the core of the Cyclone. A few seconds later the structure of the storm faltered, dimmed, and it began to break apart until it finally collapsed into a few coiled ropes of dust that rained back down upon the two onlookers.

Jeb stood frozen for a moment, horror and shock rooting him to the ground. Florabel tried to break free, but Jeb continued to absently clutch her as he stared at the spot where the Dust Devil had been. He came to life only when Florabel squirmed and pushed violently against him.

"Hold tight, doll," he said, but she continued to thrash about, struggling wildly until the stunned man put her down. Jeb released her, and she immediately ran to the spot where Dean had been, searching frantically around as though she expected him to just reappear. She bent down and picked up the gun that lay where Dean had dropped it.

"I'll take that," Jeb said slowly as he walked over to her. He looked at the gun and then over to Slaid as he lay motionless in the dust. Florabel sat down dully, saying nothing, sticking her fingers into her mouth. Jeb wanted to comfort her, but he was as equally overcome, completely stymied by what had happened. The old man wandered around blankly for a few minutes. He finally found himself approaching Slaid cautiously, catching sight of the bullet wound directly in the middle of his forehead. As he bent over the body, he saw a second bullet hole right over his heart. The farmhand was beyond help. "Jesus," he said, neither lamenting nor celebrating.

Both Florabel and Jeb lingered there for a while, too shocked to do anything. The old man tottered around back and forth between Florabel and Slaid's body, not knowing which one to deal with first. Jeb's thoughts slowly returned to the present, and he began taking stock of the situation. He had two bodies to deal with and no acceptable explanation to give to anyone who asked. And there would be questions. Lots of them. The old man looked at the gun in his hand. His gun. His gun that had killed a man. He swallowed nervously and put it in his pocket. A gust of wind swept through the barnyard, twisting and twirling along the ground, interrupting his thoughts. He sighed and walked over to Florabel who continued to sit on the spot where Dean had disappeared into the Dust Devil. The wind rolled right over her without the child making a single move to protect herself from the stinging dust. She just sat there calmly sucking three fingers.

"You OK, doll?" he asked as he picked her up. She was pliant in his arms. Seemingly unaware of her surroundings, making no eye contact, offering no response to his question. She merely gave her attention to her fingers. "Florabel," he jostled her in his arms, trying to get her to respond, but she made no move, offered no acknowledgement. Jeb sighed and held her close. "It'll be all right, Doodlebug," he said, trying to soothe her. He noticed angry bruises beginning to mottle and darken on her face. He could clearly see the outline of Slaid's hand purpling her skin. He kissed her and pet her for a moment.

He finally put her down again. "Stay here behind the barn, darlin'. Let's keep you out of the wind," he said, but she immediately walked right back to the spot where Dean had been taken from her. She promptly sat back down and resumed her vigil.

"I don't think he's comin' back, Florabel," he said sadly, but she didn't appear to have heard him. The farmer hesitated a few moments before going to the barn. He brought back a shovel and looked around for a suitable spot out of the wind. Choosing a site about ten feet behind the barn, he began digging.

Burying Slaid turned into an all-day ordeal. Jeb had to rest often. He was so careworn and tired, having eaten nothing substantial in days. He felt heady and wobbly by the time the grave had been dug. Keeping the dirt pile from blowing away was another problem he had to constantly contend with. He tried to rein in his frustration as he watched the wind skitter away with his grave, twisting into curly-q's and coiled ampersands of dirt that stretched away into nothing. He'd eventually have to dig another smaller hole just to fill in the first. Leaning against the barn for a moment, he watched Florabel. She seemed to have regressed to an infantile, non-verbal state from the shock—the loss of Dean having shattered her voice into a million unspeakable pieces. Understandable. He didn't press her further. He went to the well and brought them both some water, which she drank greedily, but she wouldn't speak or look at the old man. He hugged her again and went back to his task. It was late afternoon when he finally tamped the last of the dirt back onto the grave. Florabel never once moved from the spot where Dean had last been seen. Jeb stood for a long moment at Slaid's grave, not knowing what words could possibly befit this man, so he said absolutely nothing. Shaking his head, he shouldered the shovel and turned to Florabel.

"We need to git a move on," he said, looking at the sky. He picked the child up and took her into the bunkhouse while he collected his few belongings, packing them into a knapsack that he tossed over his shoulder. Florabel's right eye was now swollen completely shut, and the whole side of her face was the color of a dark plum. He wondered if the poor thing wasn't suffering from a concussion on top of everything else. Slaid had been merciless with his fists. Jeb tenderly felt his own jaw and the damage that had been done to it. He hinged his jaw a few times, testing to see if there was a break. There probably was a small fracture, but there was nothing to do about it anyway, so he just ran his hands through his hair and rose from his cot. He put his hand out to the child.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you ready to go." He carried her toward the house and up the porch stairs. It was only when they reached the door that Florabel came alive. She began to kick and squirm as Jeb tried to carry her over the threshold. She thrashed about, pushing against him, not wanting to have anything to do with going into that house. "It's OK, Florabel. We's just gonna git a few things to take with you. We ain't stayin' here." She would have none of it, though. She grabbed onto the door-jam and began screaming at the top of her lungs, her one good eye widening, stark with terror. Jeb was shocked. He held her shaking body fiercely, his own eyes watering. He rained kisses on her and tried to calm her. "OK, doll. Shhh, it's all right. You don't have to go in if'n you don't want to," he cooed. He set her on the porch swing. "You wait here. Old Jeb will be right back out."

He quietly went into the house, leaving the child swinging her legs slowly, once again docile, indifferent and utterly silent. Inside, he quickly put a few things in a bag, and, passing the kitchen table, he picked up the photograph taken on her birthday. His breath hitched as he looked at those smiling faces. "Dear God," he said mournfully. He looked at the photo sorrowfully and put it in the bag with a change of clothes for Florabel.

The wind was picking up when he shut the front door, the sun low on the horizon. They'd have to walk fast to make it to town before sunset. Florabel had fallen asleep. He bent down and ran his hands through her hair, swallowing the lump in his throat. Softly rubbing her back, he called her name. Her good eye snapped open and she sat up, bewildered—expectant. A fraction of a moment later she looked about her, and Jeb could see the light in her eyes go right back out as everything came back to her. "Oh Doodlebug," he said sadly. "Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "Let's go, darlin'." She obediently took his hand, walking down the path, through the silent barnyard and out onto the road without ever once glancing back.

They walked without words. Jeb could plainly hear the echoing, clomping scrape of the child's shoes on the pavement, could clearly hear the clickedy-click of dead thistles being wind-rattled against fence posts on the side of the road. Dust skittered across the road in front of them. His ears wrung with the monotonous, silent roar.

When they came to a crossroads just outside the city center, Jeb stopped. The hazy sun had set, leaving an orange, dust-infused glow on the horizon. Jeb set down the little bag and looked at Florabel, half of her face painted by the filtered sunset, the other by a dark hand-printed shadow. Jeb cleared his throat and pointed toward town. "I cain't go no further," he told her. "They's gonna be lots of questions that I cain't answer. My gun killed a man. They ain't just gonna let me go, an' I ain't made for that, doll." He knelt down to her. "I lost my boy years ago, lost my beautiful Beth. Lost my farm." He swallowed. "I'm sixty-three years old. I don't got nothin' left but my freedom, an' I ain't losin' that, too. That's just too much to ask a man." He pulled her close. "Now, I'm losin' my best two girls." He ran his hand mournfully through his hair and his voice cracked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills. "This is yours, Florabel. It's all the money your mama had. I took three dollars. I hope you an' your mama don't mind none. They's over fifty dollars, there. You hold that tight an' hide it away." He opened her bag and tucked it into a sock, showing her where he'd hidden it.

He gently stroked the child's swollen face. The bruising was cruel and uncaring. Slaid had marked her in so many ways. This, he supposed, was the least of it. Still, he knew she must have a ghastly headache. "This is the last goodbye you's gonna have to suffer for a while, Florabel. I promise. It'll be all howdy-do's and nice-t'meetcha's from here on in." He pointed to the town. "Them's good folk there. They'll look after you. You walk right down this road, here, until you come to Main Street. Go into the big building there and talk to Sheriff Burnett. You can catch a glimpse of it from here, see?" He pointed again. "He'll see that someone fetches your mama so that she gits a Christian burial." He hugged her tight and made sure that she had her bag securely in her grip before standing up. He motioned toward the town again. "That a-way, sweetheart. Be a good girl," he said. "Make your Mama, Pally, an' me proud." She stood there with the handles of her bag in both her hands. Jeb turned around and began to head west, but Florabel tottered right after him. He turned with a sad sigh.

"Y'cain't come with me, darlin'," he said walking her back to the crossroads. "I'm gonna be hoppin' freights and stayin' in shanty towns. Ain't no life for a Doodlebug." His voice caught, and he choked on a suppressed sob. He looked broken. "Ain't no life for no one." He turned and pointed her south, patting her behind gently. "I hope life treats you right from here on in, Florabel." She looked back at him, but he pointed toward the town. She finally turned and began walking away on stiff legs, lumbering under the cumbersome bag.

Jeb watched her until she grew small in the distance before turning and walking away himself. Dusk had fallen, and the light was all but gone.

**O**

February 13, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma

There was a flurry of activity when they pulled up to Florabel's farmhouse. She was surprised and impressed at how well these people worked together, each taking on tasks with minimal direction, often times supplying her with items she needed before she'd even called for them. She'd witnessed a lot of emergency rooms with less organization.

Dean was soon situated on the bed she and Ellen had prepared earlier. While Bobby and Ellen set up the heart monitor, Florabel busied herself by starting him on a unit of blood, since his pressure was dangerously low. All these years later, she still remembered the large puddle of blood on the kitchen floor. She wasn't sure how he'd been able to remain awake when they'd been down in that root cellar. He'd need at least one unit. She brought four with her just in case.

Just one glance at his eyes told her that he had a significant concussion, but the fact that he wasn't responding to any stimuli troubled her. "He ain't rousing," she said, worriedly. "We may need to git him to a hospital. He really needs an MRI. This ain't something you should trust to homeopathy."

Bobby shook his head. "He ain't gonna wake up for a couple of days. Getting too close to the elemental causes people to lose consciousness. That's what caused his amnesia, too. It happened to all those boys that were attacked."

"Really?" Florabel asked. "Mama assumed he couldn't remember because of the fever he was running when he come to us. Course there was no way for us to know that there was anything going on beyond that." She hooked up an antibiotic drip. "So he ain't gonna remember anything that happened?" She looked saddened. "He ain't gonna remember me?"

"We'll get him back. He'll remember everything eventually. He remembered me, right?" Sam said. He ran his hands through Dean's matted hair softly and checked his wound. "This is going to need stitches," he said examining it. He pulled open a small flap of skin and swallowed, turning gray. "Oh God, are those what I think they are?" he said. Florabel came over and looked close.

"Oh, um, uh…yep. I think so. We'll clean 'em out. I told you they was a lot of flies in the cellar," she said. Ellen started sorting through the supplies, grabbed a few items and began cleaning Dean's head wound out.

"Jesus," Sam said, disgusted and overwhelmed with worry. "How are all his vitals, now?"

Florabel checked him over. "His oxygen level is down. She listened to his lungs. He has a lot of pleural effusion. He has a fever of 101.2. We may need to drain the fluids from his lungs."

Sam swallowed and nodded worriedly. He could hear Dean's lungs rattling like a bong in his chest. It sounded painful. "How do we do that?" he asked.

"Don't worry. We can do it right here if we have to. We'll make sure he's stable, first. If'n he ain't any better after some antibiotics we'll take care of it," she said. "Everything else is acceptable for what he's been through." She reached behind him and motioned for Sam to help her with his overalls. She unlatched the metal hook, and she and Sam rolled them down to his waist. She cut the top of his union suit off with scissors. Shifting Dean a little on his side without upsetting Ellen's work on his head, she pulled out a wad of bandages from his shoulder blade. "Oh my," she said, holding it up. Sam grimaced at the green, greasy bandage.

"What the hell is that?" Ellen asked, recoiling.

"It's homemade penicillin," Florabel said proudly. "It's my mama's bread-and-milk poultice. Saved his life when he first came to us with that horrible gunshot infection. People assumed that Fleming discovered penicillin, and maybe he did, but old-wives had been using bread-and-milk poultices long, long before that. They just didn't get the Nobel Prize for it." She looked at his shoulder wound. "Most of the stitches have torn. We'll have to redo those."

"I can do that," Sam assured her. She nodded and ran her finger along the small stitches that still held.

"My God," the old woman marveled. "These are my mama's stitches," she said with breathy awe. She touched them once more, as if to make contact with a ghost of her past. "It's incredible."

Bobby came over and held Dean on his side while Sam cleaned the wound and stitched it up. Florabel watched him. "You're real good at that, Sam," she said.

"I've had a lot of practice," he said, indicating Dean's scars. "Most of those are my work, and if I lifted my shirt up, you'd seen his on me." Florabel looked at Sam a moment and shook her head, giving him a little pat.

"I can tell you boys take real good care of one another. Pally's gonna be OK," she said.

Sam looked at her in between stitches. "I've been meaning to ask. Why do you call him _Pally_?"

The old woman chuckled. "It was my special nickname for him. I knew we was gonna be great friends even when he wasn't awake. He was my _pal_," she said. "And he didn't even know his name when he first woke up, so I gave him one." She sat down and looked at Dean for a moment. "It's so strange." Her eyes began to water. "When I was a little girl, he was this tall, strong, larger-than-life man. He was so old and so wise." She caressed his head softly. "I look at him now an' I see a boy. A young, tired boy." She looked at Sam. "Ain't that odd how your perception changes?" She withdrew her hand and set it in her lap. "I cain't imagine how scared he was, how disorienting everything must have been for him. He never let on. He was the truest of souls. Kind hearted and patient in every way." She blushed and visibly held back her emotions. "Half the time that poor boy wore me like a hat. I had such boundary issues. I was forever crawlin' all over him, usin' him as my own personal jungle-gym. Hangin' on to him like a monkey. He always let me. His lap was always open to me." She paused for a moment. "I loved him so," she said simply. "For him that was yesterday," she said, quieting before getting up suddenly and excusing herself. "He's doin' fine at the moment. I'll be right back. Then, we can put a few stitches in his head now that Ellen has it cleaned out," she said with an unsteady voice as she hurried from the room.

"Should I go check on her?" Ellen asked.

"I'd give her some privacy," Bobby suggested quietly.

Sam looked at the other hunters. "It must be tough," he said. "Even if it was for a little while, he was her father, or her father-figure, at least." He went back to sewing and then stopped. "She's kind of like a sister to me, in a way." Bobby raised an eyebrow. "We both had the same father," he explained. He looked at the door and felt a pang of empathy for the old woman, and he realized how hard it was for her to relive such a loss. "I can't imagine what it would have been like to lose Dean when I was seven years old. I don't even want to think about it."

**O**

February 14, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma

Florabel opened the door quietly. It was after 5:00a.m., and Dean's oxygen levels hadn't been great last time she checked an hour ago. She was worried and had gotten everything ready for the Thoracentesis. Sam was folded into a chair watching over his brother. He looked up as soon as she came in and noticed she was wearing sterile scrubs and a mask.

"What's wrong?" he said springing to his feet.

She held up her hand and nodded to him, pointing to the monitor. "I ain't likin' these percentages. 85%, and he's on pure oxygen," she said. "That ain't encouraging." She looked at Sam. "Why don't you go wash up and we'll do the puncture now. It won't take long, and he'll hopefully bounce back once we're done."

Sam nodded. "OK," he said nervously. "How bad is this gonna be?" he asked.

"Don't worry. It ain't too invasive a procedure. We're just gonna give him a poke and drain the fluids. We can even have a good chat while we do it. I've got lots of questions for you," she said. "You go on, now. The quicker you wash up the sooner this'll be done."

"Of course," he said and left the room with one last worried glance at Dean.

Florabel watched until the door closed and then turned to Dean. It was the first time she'd been alone with him since he'd returned. She quietly padded to the bed and took a seat on the edge, taking Dean's hand, she stroked it lovingly.

"You ass," she said with a sly grin. Florabel stroked his forehead. "You sneaky bastard," she smirked. "You never said a damn word to me about this…about any of it," she said looking around the room. She stroked his cheek lightly and remained silent for a moment until she noticed her withered fingers against his smooth, youthful skin. The old woman suddenly recoiled, looking at her hand, age-spotted and knotted with arthritis. Florabel placed it on her own face, feeling the dips and swells as she gently smoothed out wrinkles that were not there the last time they were together. She sighed and closed her eyes. Settling her hand back on his, Florabel opened her eyes and studied his face.

"I missed you, Pally," she said eventually. "I cain't tell you how much. That day, Pally," Florabel stopped and pursed her lips, struggling. "Seein' you like that. I cain't…I cain't tell you. You know, I ain't never loved no one like I loved you. That's a fact. I ain't even ashamed to say it. You was everything to me." The old woman sighed. "I hope you don't think unkindly of me about all of this, but part of me wishes you never got your memories back. I wish that Slaid had just fallen off the face of the planet and that you and Mama and me had been a family. I ain't trying to take away who you are nor undo what really unfolded, but," she shrugged. "Part of me still wishes you remained my papa. Sometimes. Like I said, I ain't tryin' to take away what really happened," she said with an enigmatic smile.

"Back then, of course, I dreamed of it for a long time, you know? In those first months at the orphanage in especial, I would lie in bed and imagine my life so differently. Spendin' time with you in my thoughts, playin' marbles with you in my imagination, milkin' Penny, feedin' Molly with you and Mama by my side—even Old Jeb—it got me through those first months. When I imagined where you might 'a gotten to, I never once imagined this," she said with a glance around the room. "How could I?" Florabel chuckled softly. "I had no idea you was gonna practically fall into my arms all over agin. Cheeky," she smiled sadly and took a cleansing, steadying breath. "And here you are just like that first day. I hope my doctorin' is a little better, now." The old woman softly stroked his hand, looking at his fingers, gasping a little as she recognized them. They were exactly as she remembered. "Funny what folks recall, ain't it?" Florabel said as she looked at them, touching the nail-beds softly. "You ain't got nothin' to fret about, Pally. You're gonna be all right. I'll see to it," she assured, and then gave him a wink. "Expert care," Florabel said. "I promise." She released his hand when she heard Sam returning. Rising from the bed and surreptitiously wiping her eyes, she turned the overhead light on and removed the shade from the bedside lamp.

"I'm ready," he said. "What do you need me to do?"

"First thing, we want to git him out of these filthy clothes, finally."

Sam sniffed and nodded. "Right," he agreed. Sam pulled the bib of the overalls that was bunched at Dean's waist and chuckled as he pulled them off.

"What?" Florabel asked.

Sam twitched and swallowed his grin. "He's wearing overalls," he noted. "I mean, I saw the picture, but this is so much more…awesome," he said, grinning. He noticed the long underwear and quirked an eye. "What the hell is he wearing underneath?" he asked.

"What? Ain't you never seen a union suit before? There was still a chill in the air in the mornings that spring. And Pally was cold all the time from not eatin' enough." That wiped the smile right off of Sam's face, and he looked at his brother with renewed care and worry.

"We'll git him back to his proper weight," she said, seeing his expression. "I raise some of the best beef in the state. I have waiting lists of people who want to buy it. We'll fatten him up."

Sam went to toss the overalls into a chair and felt a large lump in the pocket of the bib. He pulled out a thick, brown bottle and cocked his head, reading the crude label. "Tincture of Opium?" he asked, quirking an eye, holding the bottle up for Florabel to see.

Florabel came over and took the bottle with a gasp. "I don't believe it," she marveled. "I put that there," she explained. "Wow. I ain't seen this stuff in years and years."

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Florabel wiggled an eyebrow. "Laudanum," she said with a grin, opening the bottle and sniffing. "It's basically _Liquid Heroin_." Sam's eyes grew large. Florabel nodded in agreement as she looked at the bottle. "It's several times more powerful than Morphine. Hell, it weren't even used that much in the '30's, but Doc Dawson made it hisself. Grew the poppies in a hothouse right behind his office. Ain't sure where he come by the wine during Prohibition, but by the time Pally come to us that was over with." She squinted to see how much was left. It appeared there was about a quarter of the bottle remaining. "Doc Dawson prescribed this for my papa. An' Slaid nearly killed Pally with it right after the storm." She shook the bottle a little, listening to it swish before setting it on the bedside table. "I remember the first time Mama gave Laudanum to Pally." She shuddered. "He didn't like the taste none, but it settled him down but quick. It's an extremely powerful painkiller," she said.

"It's like he walked right out of a history book," Sam said quietly, looking at his brother.

"He purty much did," Florabel nodded. She gave the unconscious man a small pat. "Let's git him tooken care of, here." Sam gently pulled the union suit off of him, leaving him in his boxers. "We's gonna have to sit him up and swing his legs right off the side of the bed. Normally you have the patient lean on a table, but we'll just have you hold him. You think you can do that without tiring?"

Sam nodded. "I can do it," he assured her.

"What about your ribs, Sam? You sure you're up to this?" she asked when she saw him wince slightly as he bent over his brother.

"I'm fine," he said, never taking his eyes off his brother. "I can do it."

Florabel looked at Sam a moment, seeing his determination. She'd never be able to talk him out of it now. That was clear. "OK," she said finally. They got Dean up and in a loose hug, laying his head gently against Sam's shoulder, making sure that his head wound did not have any pressure on it. Sam was amazed and worried by how slight Dean felt against him. He must have lost thirty pounds at the very least. "There we go," Florabel said. "You sure you're comfortable enough in this position?"

Sam nodded. "I'm good."

The old woman patted his back and walked around to the other side of the bed. She pulled out a long needle encased in a tube with a large plunger at the end. She made a small incision behind Dean's rib and slowly inserted the tubing, extracting the needle once she was in. The plunger filled with a rose-tinged, ale colored liquid. "There we go," she said. "Once we git this out of him he'll feel a lot better when he wakes up." Taking a liter bottle she hooked it to the tubing and let it fill. "We'll let that run until it's full up. It'll take a few minutes."

"A whole liter?" Sam asked, incredulous.

Florabel nodded. "We'll probably git at least two liters out of him," she said.

"Jesus," Sam said and adjusted Dean in his arms as he settled in for the wait.

Florabel sat on the bed, watching the fluid run into the bottle. "So, this is what Pally did before he came to me and Mama? You all hunt monsters?" she asked. "Real monsters?"

"Yes," Sam said. "We were investigating a vengeful spirit when this all happened."

"You mean Slaid?"

Sam nodded again. "Yes."

"So, you mean that Pally came to this town and wound up hunting down a spirit that he, himself, created seventy-two years ago?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a grin. "For us that's your average Tuesday." Florabel looked at him and shook her head, her mind completely blown. "Well, not really," he admitted. "But close."

"Pally didn't remember his past or any of this, except bits and pieces. What he saw scared him. Disturbed him. Is it that awful?" she asked.

Sam looked at her. "It can get pretty bad sometimes," he admitted.

Florabel nodded and turned the bottle in her hands. "I thought Slaid was a monster," she said. "Honestly. I thought he was a literal monster—like a shade or ghoul. Ain't it interesting that he wasn't, and, yet, Pally didn't like Slaid from the first moment he knew him? I guess even though he couldn't remember things, he still had a feeling about him."

"Spidey sense," Sam said with a smile.

"Spidey sense?" Florabel asked.

"It's what Dean calls it. He usually knows who can and can't be trusted. It's just a gift he has…or a skill he's cultivated over the years. He's always had to carry the responsibility. It made him super-aware of his surroundings. He had to be. He was always protecting me, looking out for me."

"So he's the one that took care of you after your mama was killed?" she asked.

Sam looked up, confused. "How did you know about our mother? I thought Dean couldn't remember anything."

"Oh," Florabel waffled a little. "Ellen and I had a conversation. I hope you won't be mad at her for talkin' about it." Sam shrugged.

"It's fine," he said. He was silent a moment and then went on. "Yes, he raised me after our mother was killed." Florabel glanced at him as she switched containers, letting a second one fill up.

"So, you been doing this for your whole life?"

"Pretty much. Our mother was killed by a demon, and our Dad spent the rest of his life trying to kill it." He looked at the question in her eyes. "He died some months back," he said. "Demon got him." Florabel reached out her hand and touched his arm. He looked down at Dean's slack face against his chest. "Dean's looked out for me my whole life. I have a lot to repay," he said.

"You an' me both," Florabel said. "So let's give him some payback now, hmm?" They sat quiet for a few moments while the rest of the fluid drained. They got almost two full liters off his lungs. "There," the old woman said unhooking the tubing from the drainage container. "That's gonna make him feel heaps better. "Though," she warned. "He may always be prone to lung problems from here on in. You'll have to keep that in mind. Silicosis is treatable, but he may always be susceptible to chest colds and other pulmonary ailments. A lot of Dust Bowl survivors have chronic lung problems. Luckily for him, he only spent a few months there."

Sam nodded. "I'll keep an eye on him," he promised.

Florabel watched him as he carefully adjusted Dean in his arms. "I know you will," she said. "Hold him up good and high for just a moment while I get this out." She waited until Sam had Dean in a better position and then removed the tubing in one fluid motion. "There," she said. "That weren't too bad, now, was it?" She daubed at the small puncture wound and put a band-aid on it. "Let's git him settled back. That'll make him a lot more comfortable until the antibiotics have a chance to kick in." She checked his eyes and put some drops in them.

"What's that for?" Sam asked as he supported his own ribs after lying Dean back. He winced as he sat back down.

"You all right, Sam?"

"Yeah," he said, sitting down tiredly. He nudged toward Dean. "What was that you put in his eyes?"

"Just keeping his eyes flushed out and moist. He has some small abrasions on his corneas from the dust storm." She motioned to his eyes. "Dust got in 'em. It was pretty bad. He could 'a gone blind from it, but Mama and Old Jeb spent that whole night tending to his eyes, washin' 'em out real good." She looked at Sam's pinched face. "Don't fret, Sam. He has his sight. His eyes is healin' up nicely. Thing's will be a tad blurry for a week or so, but he'll be fine. The concussion will likely have more immediate effect on his eyesight an' balance. But he should bounce back from that, too, as long as it's just a concussion we're dealing with. We're a little gimped here without proper tools to make sure."

"He's had concussions before," Sam said. "We both have. So, I know what to do." He sighed as he looked at his brother. "I just hope he wakes up soon."

**O**

_February 16, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Dean didn't wake up that day or the next. Although his fever had abated and the antibiotics seemed to be doing their job, Florabel was still worried about his concussion. The three hunters agreed that if he didn't regain consciousness by the following day, they would get him to a hospital.

In the meantime, Bobby and Ellen resumed the hunt. Florabel could only provide them with a vague idea of where Jeb had buried Slaid. They'd been pouring over construction blueprints and old land surveys to try and get their bearings and pin down the most likely areas. They didn't want to dig too many empty holes. Even without the wind demon, the site was still a hazard. By overlapping the blueprints with the old surveys, they were able to determine that Slaid's grave lay just outside of the new building, about ten to twenty feet away from the back wall that had been blown out.

While that was going on, Sam and Florabel kept watch over Dean. Florabel filled Sam in on Dean's time with her and her mama, as much of it as she could remember. Sam had listened attentively, taking it all in, commenting rarely—except when she told him about the barn dance.

"Square dancing? Are you serious?" He actually laughed, the first laugh Florabel heard come out of him since he knocked on her door. "Oh, man. What I wouldn't have given to see that!"

"Well, he was terrible at it," Florabel chided with a grin. "He could have been great. He had the agility and the rhythm. He was just stubborn and unwilling to learn. Willfully ignorant," she laughed as she remembered. "But he knew how important it was to me, so he did it. Not well, certainly not happily, but he did it."

Sam sobered and remained quiet while he looked at his brother, so thin and small in the bed. "He used to do the same for me," he said. "When we were growing up, anything that I'd take an interest in, he'd be right there to support me, helping me run lines for a school play or going through flash-cards of mathematical proofs and formulas that he really had no particular interest in beyond _my_ interest."

Florabel nodded. "I can tell that about him. I may not have had years with him, but it didn't take long to know the kind of person he was."

Sam was lost in thought a moment and then looked up. "Right," he said. "It takes a day to know Dean." He shifted and spoke quietly. "And a lifetime to understand him." He looked at Florabel and then at Dean. "He humbles me. And he infuriates me."

Florabel looked at Dean, too, lost in her own thoughts. "Sounds about right," she commented.

Sam scooted his chair closer to Dean and took his brother's hand in his own. "C'mon, Dean. Man, open your eyes," he urged. His eyes scanned his brother's face and moved down. He suddenly quirked an eyebrow. Sitting up, he opened his own collar and retrieved the amulet. He pulled it over his head and felt the weight of it in his hand. "Here, Dean," he said, removing the oxygen mask long enough to put the amulet around his brother's neck. "I've kept it safe for you." Sam smoothed Dean's hair away from his brow. "You're past due for a haircut. You'll be pissed when you wake up." Sam bent close. "Wake up soon, OK?" He gently kissed Dean's brow and grinned sheepishly. "Don't give me that look, Dean," he said to his brother's unchanged, lax face. "This was a weird hunt, even for us. Chick-flick moment every hour, on the hour, until you open your damn eyes," he smiled sadly and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them back up he was stunned.

His brother's eyes were open.

**O**

_February 17-18, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The pattern continued as before. Dean remained completely catatonic for the rest of the day, while Sam kept up a one-sided conversation practically the entire time, attempting to stimulate his brother. Bobby and Ellen had begun some excavation but had not yet found any bones. After another day, Dean began to come around somewhat and appeared to be listening even though he remained silent. Sam kept up the running dialogue for his brother, helping him to remember how to form words, gently prompting his memory with stories from their childhood and recent hunts. Florabel was stunned by much of what she heard, remaining quietly in the room, nearly forgotten. Toward sunset Dean finally cleared his throat. His first word was interesting.

"Time?" he rasped out, licking his bone-dry lips with an even drier tongue. Sam wasn't sure if it was a question or not.

"Hey! Hey Dean," Sam said, speaking through his huge smile, breathy with emotion. He reached for a glass of water and straw and offered it to his brother, helping him get it straight into his mouth. "It's a little after 6:00 p.m. We're still in Boise City, still on that hunt for the vengeful spirit, remember?" He could see Dean's breath catch. The elder hunter closed his eyes and breathed erratically. "Breathe deep, man. It's OK. I know those visions are disorienting and strange. Just ride it out. You're doing really well. You're OK." Dean opened his eyes again. "You with me?" Dean gave a vague, confused nod. "That's good, man." Sam gripped Dean's hand tightly. "You got bit by a wind demon, got too close to it, and it messed with your head a bit. That's why it's so hard to remember anything. Just that roaring wind, right?" Dean looked at him, surprised and nodded again. Sam stroked Dean's hand, patting it, gripping it firmly. "I know, man. It happened to me, too. It sucks. But we got lots of people helping us out. Bobby's here. And Ellen, too…and another friend." Sam searched his brother's face. "This ringing any bells?" Sam continued to anchor Dean for well over an hour as he led him through several memories, each one causing Dean to flinch and gasp as detached visions shook him. "You're getting it, man. You're doing great," Sam told him.

Dean watched Sam's lips as he spoke. He appeared to be searching for something, a word or a concept. "Wh—who?" he asked.

"Me?" Sam asked. "I'm Sam. I'm your brother." Dean flinched. Closing his eyes he groaned out. Florabel moved closer to make sure he wasn't in any physical distress. "Easy, Dean. Don't fight it, man. Just let it come back on its own."

Sam's voice hitched and he stopped and swallowed. "You'll remember, Dean. And, man, I can't wait. It's been really hard without you around, you know? You're my one constant. The one thing that I can truly count on. I've been a bit lost since you've been gone. We all have. Bobby and Ellen—they're our friends, Dean—they've been worried sick. You remember Bobby, don't you? Hell he's been around as long as I can remember, he's like a dad to us. Hey, do you recall that one summer we were staying with Bobby, back when…I don't know… back I was about eight years old? You and I made that fort out of old car gizzards—that's what you called them—just a bunch of old seats and trunk panels. We worked on that thing for days. You were so damn proud of that secret compartment you built into it, big enough just for me to get in. You made it just in case we ever needed a hiding spot. You wanted me to have a safe place to be." Dean twitched and closed his eyes. Sam held onto his hand and squeezed. "Yeah, you see it, don't you? You're doing great, Dean. You're getting there. You want to slow your breathing down just a little, though," he said as he watched his brother's chest heave. "Just go with it." He waited moment. "There you go. That's better, man. You want to take a break? We can just relax for a while." Dean shook his head no and then flinched from the pain. "Yeah, that hurts," Sam said. "You got hit in the head, man. But you're going to be OK."

Sam sighed. "It's been a long few days. Well, a lot longer for you than for me," he said wryly. "We didn't know where you were, Dean. I've never…," he faltered. "I've never been so goddamned scared." Sam took a few quick breaths himself. "But we found you. You've got some injuries, but you're gonna be just fine." Dean blinked and started to look as though he was going to fall back asleep. Sam rubbed his brother's chest gently. "You've got to get better. You're going to want to be moving on to the next hunt, just like you always do. You're going to be insufferable, and I wouldn't have it any other way," he laughed, his eyes beginning to glisten. "You've got to snap out of it, though. What will _baby_ think if she assumes you don't care? You remember baby, don't you?" Sam said. "She sure misses you, man." Sam pulled out his cell and flipped through some photos. "See?" He showed Dean a photo that Sam snapped of Dean goofing off with the Impala, sprawled against it in a spacious, enthusiastic hug. Dean looked at the photo and grabbed the phone, squinting to try and bring it into focus.

"Wha' th' f'ck?" he said as he looked at the photo and then at Sam. His face morphed from confused to surprised to completely overwhelmed. He slumped back into the pillow, writhing painfully. Sam grabbed his shoulders. "Ffffffuccckkk!" Dean screamed out.

"I gotcha, man. Hang on. Hang on, Dean!" Sam tried to soothe him. Dean was whimpering and wheezing as the memories flowed into him. They folded and churned, agitating against one another like wine pouring into a crystal glass, some of the memories were so brutally painful that Sam could see them ripple right through him. "I know. I know it hurts, Dean." Tears were running down Dean's face as he continued to let loose a non-stop, colorful chain of invectives. "You're safe, Dean. I'm right here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

After several moments Dean's breathing began to slowly return to normal. He gasped and opened his eyes, focusing and refocusing as he reached up and grabbed a fistful of Sam's shirt. Emotions relay-racing back and forth across his face.

"Sammy?" he said, looking at his brother. Sam smiled through his tears. He nodded.

"Welcome back, big brother."

_**To Be Continued…**_


	20. Gonna Git Through This World

_**A/N: As always, my first words are reserved for my wonderful beta's: NongPradu, Numpty, and Beckydaspatz. They taught me so much—asking questions I would never have thought of, and making suggestions that added so much to this story! They're beyond awesome!**_

_**A/N: Warning for language, adult themes, and children in peril. See chapter 1 for complete listing**_.

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 20: Gonna Git Through This World**

**O**

_February 18, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel couldn't hear what they were saying. Sam was bent close, protective and private, talking in a calming, hushed whisper, apparently answering questions and striving to keep his brother on an even keel. She could see Dean's hand ball into a fist as Sam began to whisper faster. She watched the heart monitor surge upwards as Dean suddenly fought to rise. Sam held him down.

"Sammy, Sammy, listen to me," Dean rasped out, louder, stressed. The younger hunter tried to get him to quiet down, shushing and drawing soothing circles on his brother's chest. Dean, kept pushing onward, though, grabbing Sam's shirt, pulling him in and then pressing against him earnestly. "We have to go back. I've got to get her. I can't leave her there!" He licked his bone-dry lips with an equally parched tongue. Sam grabbed a glass of water from the nightstand and helped him drink.

Sam gripped his brother's white knuckles as they gripped the glass. "The elemental has been banished, Dean. There's no way back."

"No, Sammy! No!" Dean tried again to sit up, sloshing some water on him. Sam took the glass away and set it on the stand. "She's all alone. Please help me. We can bring her back here. I'm begging you, Sammy. Please!"

"Dean," Sam said with stern compassion. "There's no way back, man." Dean pushed him out of the way, and as he sat up, he noticed the old woman for the first time. He looked startled and suddenly embarrassed, allowing Sam to guide him back down.

"Who is that?" he whispered, uncomfortable and self-conscious. "Where the hell am I?" He asked, suddenly realizing that he wasn't in a hospital. Sam ran his hands through his hair, stalling, uncertain how to approach this. He tried to buy himself some time.

"Uh, this is Mad Dog, Dean. You remember? Gerry told us about the doctor who owned the land where the mall was being built. Doc has been helping us out. This is her place."

Dean stole a quick glance at Florabel and then looked at Sam. "I thought Mad Dog was a dude," he whispered furtively. Sam just raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Dean stole another groggy peek. "Why's she staring at me?"

Before Sam could answer, Florabel took control, coming over and putting her hand on Sam's back. She gave it a pat, silently telling him to move. The young hunter got up and backed away nervously. The old woman took his place and made deliberate eye contact with Dean. His discomfort grew palpable, and he began to look anywhere but at her. She took his hand, even though he tried to shrink away from the stranger's touch. Looking at him for a long, penetrating moment, she smiled. Finally she spoke.

"I'm starin' at you 'cause you's the most handsomest man I ever did see, Pally," she said, and she gripped his hand, sandwiching it between her own, anchoring him as her words and voice penetrated. She quietly studied his face and kept holding his hand, nodding her confirmation to the question he couldn't quite bring himself to verbalize but that flooded his eyes.

"Florabel," he said at last, but his expression was broken and tormented.

"'Bout time you woke up," she said lightly. "I ain't never met anyone who sleeps so much as you." She patted his hand and quickly reached up to snag a tear as it dripped from her eye. "We been waitin' days."

"No," he said. His breaths started to catch and tumble out rapidly. "No. Oh God," he rasped. "I left you there. I left you all alone." He turned his head away, tears of shame and heartbreak in his eyes.

"Pally," she said, but he didn't turn his head or answer. "Pally, don't be that a-way," she said in a more commanding tone, so like Emma's that it made him flinch. "Pally, listen to me, now." She kept trying to get into his field of vision, finally gripping his chin and forcing the issue, turning him toward her. "I'm all right," she assured him. "You saved me." She snapped her fingers forcing him to keep eye-contact with her. His glance was thick with regret. "You saved me, Pally. You killed that monster, and I'm alive because of you. I don't want you to fret no more about it."

His chest started to heave and his throat constricted. "Emma," he said, and he brought his hand up to shield his eyes. "Emma."

"I know," she said. "I know it hurts. I miss her, too. But you done everything you could to help her."

"My fault," he said. "Left her alone."

"Whoa, no sir. Don't you do that, Pally. You left her to go find me. If'n I hadn't a-run off, Slaid wouldn't 'a got to her. But," she said shaking his hand. "Look at me, Pally," she said. He pulled his hand away from his pained eyes and looked at her. "But Slaid would 'a found a way, if not at that moment, then later. Slaid killed Mama. You didn't do nothin' wrong."

Dean's eyes swept over her face, aching to see the child he loved and had cradled in his arms as she cried by that tree just a couple of days ago. He felt an overwhelming loss as he tried to find her in that slightly stooped and fragile, elderly body. He found her hidden deep within the old woman's blue eyes, but she was mixed in with, and ultimately changed by, a lifetime of other hurts and happinesses that he had been no part of—could not share in—and the pain of that realization was exquisite.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, his voice cracking.

"Ain't nothin' to be sorry about," she said.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't be your papa," he said in a whisper. "I wanted to be. I'm so sorry, Bel." Tears started to trickle towards his ears and he struggled to master them.

Florabel looked at his hand nestled between her palms and she squeezed harder. "Weren't meant to be, Pally. It just weren't meant to be." She reached out and gently stroked his forehead and cheek. His eyes closed and opened slowly. He was still concussed and drowsy. "I'm all right, though. I done grew up, and I became a doctor just like you said I would, right?" His eyes met hers, and she smiled at him. "And I had a little girl. A beautiful, spirited, gorgeous girl. Feisty little thing. So I had the family you wanted for me." She looked into his exhausted eyes. "And you 'n me, we found each other agin, Pally. We found each other after all these years. I didn't think I'd ever see you agin in this lifetime. You don't know…" She started to falter, to stumble just a little. "You don't know how much I wanted to see you, to talk to you, and here you are. You're right here, and I'll take whatever I can git. You understand me? I'll take this moment and I'll be grateful for right now. To hell with what I did or didn't have. So just you git lots of rest," she said, seeing how much this had taken out of him. His awareness was marginal, and he had to fight to stay awake. "Sleep, Pally, and when you git better we'll be able to catch up good and proper." Dean's eyes were beginning to cross a little as he struggled to keep them open. He gripped her hand a moment, slightly confused.

"Are you leaving?" he asked.

"No," she said, "But your concussion is fogging you up a bit. Don't think on it. Just close your eyes and when you wake up, I'll be here."

"Good," he sighed, gazing at the old woman through eyelashes curled at half-mast. "M'glad you're here," he said. "Jeb, too?"

Florabel smiled sadly. "Naw, Pally, Old Jeb ain't here, but wherever he is, I know he's thinkin' kindly of you."

"He's a cool dude," Dean slurred as sleep stole him away.

"He sure was," Florabel said. "He sure was."

**O**

_February 20, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Dean slept the better part of two days. The brief times that he did wake, he was still disoriented, slow to respond and to understand. At one point he asked Sam how he'd managed to travel all the way to 1935 to find him. Sam was patient, repeating things as often as Dean needed, even when it broke his heart to do so. Twice, he had to remind Dean that Emma had been killed, and he regretted it both times. Florabel was convinced that Dean had a skull fracture and was worried, advising them that she was blind and powerless without the proper diagnostic tools available at a hospital, but as the second day wore on, he roused for quite some time and was far more lucid and present—and typically "Dean"—demanding that he be allowed to take up the hunt for Slaid's bones alongside Bobby and Ellen.

He squinted, trying to focus on the paper in front of him. He snapped the pen down, disgusted with his lingering double-vision and sluggish focus. "This sucks. It would be so much faster if you just let me go with you."

"You know the rules. Friends don't let friends hunt concussed. In your case we're likely talkin' about a busted melon. Don't need X-rays to tell us something's cracked in there," Bobby explained. "You're supposed to be watchin' my ass out there, not fillin' it full of salt because you're too dizzy to shoot straight."

"C'mon, Bobby. I was concussed a lot worse than I am now when I turned the bastard into a vengeful spirit," Dean said heatedly. "Bet my aim was fuckin' awesome, too, all things considered."

"Well, you're benched for the time being, just the same. You're still coughin' up black goo, not to mention all the hardware you're attached to," he said, motioning to the IV and heart monitor. "Hell, you ain't even pissin' vertical yet. No way are you hunting. You stay put for now, Tom Joad."

Dean pulled the covers up firmly around his chest and huffed indignantly. "Lame, Bobby. And quit callin' me that!"

Bobby's lips twitched. "You prefer Pa Kettle?"

Dean produced an impressive bitchface of his own. "Not funny," he snapped.

"It's a little funny. And at least you're well enough to gripe. That's a good sign," Bobby admitted with a grin. "Besides, we can't do anything until we find the bones." He bent over the crude map that Dean had been trying to draw. Despite Dean's condition, Bobby knew that he would be able to supply them with far more accurate information than they'd find on any survey maps. "So," he said giving the paper a tap. "You said you were standing about thirty feet from the side of the barn when you shot him?" Dean grudgingly gave his attention to the map.

"I was here," he said, blinking and opening his eyes wider, trying to focus as he pointed. "Slaid was no more than thirty feet away, toward the back of the bunkhouse. Florabel says that Jeb buried him about ten feet out from the south-east corner of the barn." Florabel stepped up and looked at the map.

"That's right," she said. "I remember he had a terrible time keeping the pile of dirt he'd dug from being carried away when the wind clipped the corner of the barn. He finally had to dig a second hole to get enough dirt to fill up his grave."

"Well, we've dug a couple of test holes and have come up with nothing. Do you know how deep it was?" Ellen asked.

Florabel shook her head. "I don't remember much about that day," she said. "I know that it was over Old Jeb's head, because I remember one time thinking he'd left, too, but then I saw dirt come flyin' out of the hole. Dunno how tall the man was, everyone was tall to me back then. They still are. I reckon he was a few inches shorter than Pally. So, I guess the hole was standard sized."

Bobby gave the back of his neck a good rub. "All right. We'll try and match that up with the current blueprints and see if we can't do another test dig." He looked at Dean. "We also need to take care of the other one," he warned. Dean's eyes narrowed. "We could do that one first and then find Slaid. We know where that one is buried, at least."

"Bobby…" Dean's voice was low and dangerous. "No."

Bobby cocked a brow but his voice was gentle. "It has to be done, son. You know that." Florabel looked around perplexed as the hunters exchanged glances.

"What?" she asked. "What's goin' on?" Nobody said anything for a moment. "What needs to be done?"

Sam came forward and put his hand on her shoulder. "There are two vengeful spirits at the site," he said.

She looked at him. "You mean the other one that connected to the elemental with Slaid?" Sam nodded. "OK, so's we need to find out who his friend is and then salt an' burn the bones, right?"

Sam could hear Dean shift in the bed. He gripped Florabel's shoulder. "We're pretty sure we know who it is."

Florabel looked at him, blankly. "OK, who is it?" Sam didn't answer, but she read it in his face. She looked at Dean who confirmed it, meeting his devastated eyes before he averted them. "Mama?" she whispered and swallowed thickly. Sam patted her. "How do you know it's her?"

"We don't for sure," Bobby admitted. "But after hearing your story. It's the only thing that makes sense. I'm sorry."

Florabel tried to grasp the concept. "Mama's a ghost? She's vengeful?"

"Well, she has an understandable reason to be," Ellen said, coming up and offering her arm as they sat Florabel down in a chair.

"But—but…," she looked confused. "You mean she's been on that land all this time? She didn't go to be with Papa and Henry? Why would she do that?"

"We don't know why some spirits linger and others don't. We do know that it's more likely to happen to folks who have met with an untimely, violent end," Ellen explained. "They feel that they have unfinished business, or they are upset that their life was taken. Maybe she thought to stay behind to protect you. Ain't no real way of telling. But after years of a spirit hangin' on like that, they usually go crazy from it all. That's when they become dangerous."

Florabel's eyes welled. "But, Mama wouldn't hurt no one. She'd never do that. Not ever."

"She's been controlling the wind demon with Slaid," Bobby reminded her. "And people have been hurt by that, Florabel. She probably ain't what you remember her to be anymore. Vengeful spirits don't see things the way we do. They are in so much pain that they just lash out. They ain't in their right minds."

"What's gonna happen to Mama when you burn her bones?" she asked.

"We don't know for certain," Ellen interjected. "Some folks think they finally move on to where they should have gone when they died. Some folks think it's death for a ghost. But no one knows for sure."

"No. No! Pally, no." The old woman began to weep bitterly. "Don't let 'em. Don't let 'em kill Mama. She ain't done nothin' wrong. You cain't. I'm beggin' you, please."

Dean cleared his throat. "We won't touch her," he said. The other hunters gaped at him.

"Dean…," Sam said, sadly.

"No," he said, his jaw squared and set. "We won't touch her until this is over. You hear me?" he said, his eyes stabbed like jade daggers as he looked from hunter to hunter. "The very least we can do is put Slaid down first. Once he's gone, if she won't move on, if she's really…," he couldn't say it. "Then we'll take care of it. But not before."

Bobby sighed. "All right, Dean. We'll wait. But if she needs to be put down, we're going to have to do it. From what you tell me, Emma—the real Emma—wouldn't want this. We owe it to her as much as to anyone else. She'd expect no less." He looked at Dean and Florabel and saw them both slump a little. They knew he was right, at least about that. "We won't do nothing until we know for sure," he confirmed. He moved to go. Sam got up.

"I'll go with you and help," Sam offered.

"No need right now, Sam," Ellen said. "We're just going to do a couple of test-digs and see what we find. If we come up with anything we'll give you a call. Until then just stay put and rest. You're not 100% either."

"Wait, what? What's wrong with Sammy?" Dean asked, sitting up.

"It's nothing, Dean," Sam said sulkily. "Just a couple of bruised ribs from the Cyclone."

"Broken," Bobby corrected.

"Whatever. Same difference," Sam said. "They're nearly healed. I'm fine." Dean started to push the blankets off of him.

"Let me see," he said as a wave of vertigo swept over him. He started to tip over, nearly spilling from the bed. "Shit," he said as he tried to grab onto something. Sam ran to him, catching him before he dropped. Bobby came up as well.

"Dean!" Sam shouted.

"I'm good. Dammit. Get off," he said, trying to shove Sam's helping hand away.

Sam got him settled back against the pillows. "Just lie back until it passes, Dean. C'mon, man."

"This blows!" Dean growled in between deep breaths, his hands curling into fists. He gripped the blanket in frustration and yanked it up. "Can you all just leave me alone?"

Bobby nodded and turned to Ellen. "All right. We're heading out. Sam, you stay here with your brother. We'll call if we find anything. If we come up empty maybe we can get our hands on some sonar equipment and see if we can't find them that way."

"I can make some calls to the U of Oklahoma. My daughter is a physician at the hospital there. I can probably borrow something from the university that will work," Florabel said.

"Sounds good." Bobby turned to Dean. "Hang in there, son. Things will get better soon."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said with mopey indifference. Bobby could tell it was all a front. The boy was about to pass out. Just the simple act of talking had exhausted him, and Bobby knew how much it had to irk the normally active hunter.

"OK, let's give Old MacDonald some space. Come on, folks," he said, ushering them out with an anticipatory grin. "Ee-I, Ee-I, Oh. Now, move it."

"Dammit Bobby…," came the mumbled malediction. Bobby gave the others a self-satisfactory nod that plainly said _my-work-here-is-finished_. He closed the door quietly as Dean drifted off.

**O**

Dean woke with a start. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock, but they wouldn't focus properly. He grunted as he reached out to bring the clock closer.

"It's 10:42 p.m.," Florabel said from the chair on the other side of the bed. Dean looked over and sighed, rubbing his crusty eyes again. "Where's Sam?"

"He left. Bobby called an hour ago an' said they'd found a bone with their test-dig. He ran down there to help out. Looks like Slaid is gonna git his comeuppance tonight," she said. "Couldn't happen to a more deservin' man," she said with a snort.

"Shit," Dean huffed and sat up. He flung his hand out to steady himself. "Dammit!" he groused. He waited a moment for everything to clear. "Do you have a cell phone?"

"What would I need one of them for?" she said. "I'm home most of the time."

"Right," Dean coughed out and looked at her. "Do you have any phone?"

"Of course I do. I dunno as it'll reach, though. Let me try." She got up slowly and left the room. She came back, pulling a long cord behind her. She handed the clunky black phone to Dean. "Good thing I bought that extra long cord."

"Rotary? Seriously?" Dean said, looking at it, incredulous.

Florabel shrugged. "It works, don't it?" Dean raised his eyebrows and dialed Sam's number.

"Pick up, dude," he said, nibbling a fingernail. "Come on!" He hung up the phone and dialed another number. He waited a moment and then hung up. He tried Sam one more time. "Sonofabitch," he complained. He looked around the room. "I don't suppose Sam left any clothes for me, did he?"

Florabel shrugged again. "I don't think so."

"Sonofabitch—fuck—shit!" he panted out.

"I washed your overalls and shirt," she said. "What do you want clothes for?"

"Do you have a car, Florabel?" he asked, distracted as he began to pick at the tape over his IV.

"Uh, well…yes. What are you doing, Pally? Leave that be."

"They aren't answering their phones. That's bad, Florabel. That's very bad. I need to get over there. Can I borrow your car?" he pulled off the heart-monitor pads and went to get up but didn't get half-way before he pitched to the side. Florabel had already swung around to him and helped him stay on the bed. "Sonofa…"

"Just stay put, Pally. Your brain is still all catawampus," she said.

"I've got to get to Sam," he said. "I have to get there, Florabel. I can't let Slaid…" Their eyes met, and she nodded.

"OK, Pally. OK. Just hang on a spell an' let me help you. I'll git you there."

Dean sighed and nodded. He went to get up and noticed a slender tube running from underneath the covers. "Oh God," he said. "Please tell me you didn't put that in me."

Florabel chuckled. "I'm a doctor, and I'm damn near eighty years old, Pally. I think I know what a penis looks like, by now."

Dean twitched, humiliated to the core. "Fuck."

**O**

"Holy shit, Florabel, when did you get this?" Dean asked, admiring the pristine 1946 Chevy Half Ton Pickup in her garage. He tried not to lean against the old woman as he maneuvered into the garage, but he had to put his hand on her shoulder to steady himself a couple of times.

"I bought it when I got out of medical school. He was old, but he was in good condition, and he was affordable.

"_He_?"

Florabel nodded. This is _Buddy_. He's been with me for fifty-four years. One of the longest relationships of my life," she grinned.

"You named your truck?" Dean laughed.

"Uh, well…," she faltered. "I…Every car needs a name," she said with her arms crossed. "Don't you agree?"

Dean grinned. "Actually, I do," he admitted. "I just think it's funny."

"Well I don't drive him much anymore," she said opening the door. Dean swayed and gripped the door handle to right himself. "This ain't a good idea," Florabel fussed as she tried to steady him as much as she could. He towered over her, and if he fell, she'd be flattened. "This just ain't a good idea."

"I'll be fine," he tried to assure her—and himself. "As soon as I sit down I'll be fine." Florabel waited until he was settled before shutting the door and coming around to the driver's side. She gingerly stepped onto the running board and climbed into the truck. Sitting down, she patted herself for her keys.

Dean watched her. She was so small, her head barely rose above the steering wheel. "Wow, before I leave town, remind me to build you a booster seat for this beast. How in the hell are you seeing anything but the dash?"

"I can see just fine. Now quit makin' me nervous." She painstakingly belted and situated herself. Putting the key in the ignition, she paused, looking at Dean expectantly. "Put your seatbelt on, Pally," she said.

"I'm fine," he said. Florabel sat back in her seat and stared at him.

"I've seen the results of folks not wearin' their seatbelts far too often. Now, buckle up." She said emphatically. "Or we ain't a-goin' nowhere."

Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed the seatbelt, latching it and pulling the strap tighter. "When did you add these seat belts? Forty years ago? Fifty?" he asked her. "I don't think they are going to do us much good if we get in an accident.

Florabel meticulously adjusted the rearview mirror, a small Matchbox car, a little Dodge Charger, dangling from it. "What's this? No fuzzy dice?" Dean asked.

Florabel looked at the toy and pressed a little kiss to her finger and then placed it on the car. "That's my good luck charm," she said. "Keeps me safe." She cautiously looked behind her and rolled the truck out of the garage ever so gently. She took her time turning the truck around and began tootling down the road at a blustery 19 mph.

The muscles in Dean's jaw pulsed and the vein in his forehead started to throb. He cleared his throat. "Um, Florabel? It's after 11:00 p.m. on a week night, in a town that's no bigger than my thumb. I think it's safe to go faster than 20 mph."

"It don't hurt to be cautious," she defended herself. "I ain't never had a speeding ticket in my life," she boasted. There was a hissing, huffy-puff of air as Dean released some of the pressure in his skull. His right foot was pressing furiously into the floorboard. Florabel went on. "I only got pulled over once in all my life, an' that wasn't even my fault. Now hush, I got this."

"Bel, sweetheart…"

"What?"

"Does _quick-like-a-fuckin'-jackrabbit_ have any effect whatsoever, anymore?"

The old woman muttered something inaudible under her breath, but at least she accelerated to a decent clip. Dean continued to fidget worriedly the rest of the way, which, despite his fear and agitation, did not take long. Just a few minutes after leaving Florabel's house she was turning into the construction site.

"Over there," he said pointing off the road, towards the back of the building. Florabel hadn't even yet swerved before they heard several gunshots. "Hurry," Dean gritted out as he went to grab his own weapon, only to realize he didn't have one. "Shit!"

He rubbed his eyes and tried to get them to clear as Florabel came to a stop. "Oh no!" she panted as they watched Ellen literally sail right past the windshield, thrown by an appallingly vicious force. As she went flipping through the air, her sawed-off flew out of her hands. "What's happening?" Florabel cried, but Dean had already spied the spirit over by the grave. Dean opened the door and spilled out, misjudging the distance just enough to send him slipping to his knees. He put his hands out to catch his fall.

"Ellen! Sammy!" he called out. He used the door to help get him upright. He looked at the scene playing out before him. Bobby was trying to reload his salt-gun and keep an eye on Ellen where she had fallen in a heap a good ten-feet behind them. Dean heard her groan and saw her rubbing her head in stunned pain. Sam was deep in the grave, frantically trying to uncover the rest of the bones. Dean could only see the very top of his head. Slaid's specter was literally just a few paces away from the hole. Dean could see electricity running up and down his arms. "Sammy! Look out!" he called again. Florabel was running around the back of the truck, coming up behind Dean to give him what assistance she could.

"Slaid," he yelled out. The ghost turned and let out a bumptious laugh.

"Be with you in just a moment, Devil fighter," he said, unconcerned. He raised his right hand and pointed at Bobby who had almost gotten the salt-gun reloaded. The gun leapt from the older hunter's hands and went sailing into the prairie grasses. Dean could see Bobby literally curl into a protective ball as a blast of energy was flung from Slaid's hands, residual energy from the wind demon, perhaps. Bobby's cap went flying off as he was thrown not far away from Ellen.

"Bobby!" Dean called out. Getting no answer, he turned to Slaid with his hands up, placating, cautious. "Slaid," he said, stealing a quick glance at Sam who made eye-contact, telling Dean to keep Slaid occupied for just a minute longer. "Slaid," he said again as he and Florabel slowly walked forward. "Just want to talk to you a moment." Dean looked at Sam again, but the younger hunter was deep in the grave trying to scrabble the last few bones out of the dirt.

"Ya, talk," Slaid laughed. "No gun this time, Devil fighter," he said, his eyes flinty, his mouth a rigid sneer.

"Right," Dean said. "No guns. I just want to talk."

"I see you still have my whore," he spat out. Dean stood up erect at that, even though he could feel Florabel's hand on him, gripping him, trying to pull him back.

"Don't call her that," Dean said slowly, stepping in front of Florabel protectively. The farmhand shrugged.

"Whore, slut, bitch. It's all the same," Slaid said. He looked Florabel up and down. "I can see her. I can see her life—how many times she's been fucked." His eyes fell on Dean. "But I had her first. No matter who she fucks. I had her first."

"So what?" Dean said and stole another glance at Sam. He was still digging furiously, periodically bending down to toss another bone into the pile. Dean looked back at Slaid and spoke slowly, deliberately goading him. "She never willingly gave herself to you. Never cared for you. Never wanted you. Never loved you." Slaid's eyes blazed.

"She would have, if you had not turned her from me." His hands flared with electric light but then diminished slightly. He looked at his hands, confused, shaking them to try and force the energy to stir within them. Whatever power the wind-demon had given him, without its constant presence, he was slowly being drained of what little power he'd ever received from it. Dean watched him, trying to give Sam the last few moments he needed.

"No," Dean said. "Not a chance in hell, Slaid. You weren't good enough for Florabel or Emma. You were nothing but a batshit, crazy loser." He saw Sam jump out of the grave through his peripheral vision. The young hunter began to douse the grave with lighter fluid. Florabel's breath hitched as she watched Sam strike the match. Her eyes widened in anticipation, but that also tipped Slaid off.

It was almost the equivalent of an adrenaline surge within the ghost. An undulating wave of electric blue pulsed through him and he threw his hand out and spun around right as Sam was about to drop the flame. A shockwave of power and electricity flew out, dousing the flame and tossing Sam chaotically through the air.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, but Slaid turned back, and, with a flick of his hand, Dean went sailing back towards Florabel's truck, striking the grill and falling to the ground with a grunting thud.

"Oh Pally, no!" Florabel shouted in fear. She turned to run to him, but she suddenly found herself locked in place. She turned back to Slaid in surprise and fell to her knees. The ghost had sent out a thin, veiny strand of energy, and she was frozen under his painful, commanding touch.

"At last, little whore," Slaid said with a broad and ugly smile. He bent close as she struggled to turn away from his face. Her breath came out a frosty white as she looked up at him pleadingly.

"Please, no," she begged.

Dean roused at that and opened his eyes. He tried to rise, but he only found himself back on the ground again. He began to crawl. "Slaid," he growled. "Don't you fucking hurt her," he demanded.

Slaid paid almost no heed to the hunter. He was focused on the woman before him. "You will learn to love me, child," he promised her. He began to apply his hands to her face, and she cried out in pain.

Dean was working his way over, trying to reach out, trying to do anything to get Slaid to stop. Just as Dean grabbed a hold of Florabel's coat, he suddenly saw Slaid arch his back in pain. The dead farmhand let go of Florabel and she slumped into Dean's arms. They fell to the ground as one. The old woman tried to pat Dean to tell him she was all right, but Slaid took their attention again as he bellowed in anger and pain. A large filament of light had stabbed him, white hot, from behind. They all followed his surprised glance as he looked back to see what had hit him. And there stood Emma, very visible, no static wobbles, no hesitation. She was complete and whole and only her lucent form told them she wasn't corporeal. Her hands stretched the malleable energy, balling it up and making to throw it at the farmhand.

"Don't touch her, Slaid," Emma said as sternly as she had ever spoken in life.

"You?" Slaid laughed. "You are the quiet one that's been haunting my steps all this while?" His lip quirked in a derisive sneer. "I thought it might be the little whore I stole from her mother. What was it you called her?" he turned to Florabel. "Lizzy?" The old woman gasped. Slaid's eyes sparkled even as he put a finger to his lips as though he were describing a delicacy. "She was so delicious…so beautiful." He looked wistful. "Too bad she had the good sense to move on, ya?" he said as he moved toward Emma. She flickered and disappeared, reappearing a little farther back. Slaid, laughed. "Why did you hide? Had I known it was you, we might have been able to play much together. "

"All the more reason to stay hid," Emma said, the light around her shimmering, glistening like tears as she moved. "Now you git away from my child, or I'll…"

"What?" Slaid roared with laughter. "I controlled the Hala. I still have some of its power within me." Electricity sparked at his fingertips and ran up his arms. "See? You cannot harm me," he said. "Let me bring the little one to us. We can be a family, now. All together. Ya?"

"Never," Emma said. "Not then, not now, not never. Haven't you noticed that I learned to control that demon, too?" she said. "I got as much power as you. Probably more, since I didn't spend it tryin' to hurt folks." She watched Dean as he crawled to the side, quietly sidling his way to the grave.

"Let's test it, ya?" Slaid said. "Come here, little one," he said. "We can finally be the family I always wanted us to be." He reached out his hands toward Florabel and they began to pulse and crackle with light.

Dean had reached the grave and growled out his devastation when he realized he had no matches. He looked over to see Sam sitting up blearily. "Sammy," he said softly. They made eye-contact and Sam immediately understood. The young hunter pulled a packet of matches from his pocket and threw it to Dean. Both the book of matches and Slaid's hands flared at the same time, and both the hunter and the farmhand released their flames simultaneously. Dean watched the arc of the burning matches and the arc of Slaid's bolt of energy that was aimed right at Florabel. Just before Slaid's blast hit the old woman, Dean heard the soft whhhump as the bones ignited. Slaid looked down in surprise and watched his own astral form immolate from his feet up, scorching the bewildered, disappointed look off his face as he was consumed. The bolt of energy fizzled out just before it reached Florabel, and a thundering silence descended upon the construction site. The only sound for a moment was the crackle of Slaid's bones as they were destroyed by the flames.

Dean collapsed even as Sam came running up to him. "Dean!" he said. "Hey, man, stay awake, now." He began shaking him as he pulled him into his arms. "Jesus Dean. Open your eyes." Sam looked his brother over worriedly.

Dean blinked sluggishly at Sam. "He gone?" Sam nodded.

"You killed him—again. Y'big damn hero." Sam looked at him. Dean gave a feeble thumbs up and relaxed against Sam's chest.

Over in the taller grasses, Bobby got up slowly and limped over to Ellen who was lying not far away. He knelt down and checked her pulse.

"You better pop a breath-mint before you even think of givin' me mouth-to-mouth, Singer."

"I ain't givin' you mouth-to-mouth, woman. You're fangs are too sharp," he said even as he smoothed her hair back with care. "How many fingers?" he said holding up a few.

"Three," she said. "And that's how much whiskey I want when we get out of here. Give me a hand," she reached for Bobby and he helped her sit up. They looked over to the others. Emma remained visible by the grave. She walked over to the brothers and bent down to Dean.

"Dean," she said, her eyes soft and serene. "I cain't say I'm sorry enough. I didn't know. I didn't know we flung you back until after it happened. I never meant to hurt no one, least of all you. I was just tryin' to stop Slaid from killin' folks. I think maybe I did more harm than good, though.

"Emma," he whispered, his breath misting with cold despite the warmth in her eyes as she moved close to him. "I'm sorry." She looked at him, regarding him with her characteristic kindness.

"For what, Dean? You done nothin' to be sorry for," she said.

"I couldn't…" he faltered. "I should have saved you."

Emma shook her head. "You was busy savin' my baby girl. You know I'd have it no other way. You couldn't 'a stopped Slaid that day." Dean cast his eyes down miserably, so Emma knelt and made sure to draw his attention away from the ground. "I always knew you was a good man, Dean." She pulled back as though to get a full look at him. "But now I can see you so much clearer than I ever could. You got a shine that's bigger than the sun, Dean. I ain't seen anything so bright before. It's so beautiful and pure. You done the best you could, an' you saved my baby girl. I cain't ask for more 'n that." Her eyes caressed him as she looked at the guilt and regret in his face. "Don't be sad. Henry and Red are expecting me," she said with a genuine smile. "I've waited so long." She went to touch his face, but stopped just short. "Thank you, Dean, for everything." He couldn't answer, his strength and resolve was waning as he felt the pull of unconsciousness. He gave her a slow nod and eased back into Sam's arms. "You rest up, Dean. The world needs you fit an' strong."

Emma looked up into Sam's eyes, and she smiled at him. "Sam," she said wistfully. "He was lost without you. I'm so glad you found each other agin. Keep him safe." Sam swallowed and nodded at her, overwhelmed. Emma gave Dean one last soft glance and then rose, turning toward Florabel who had slowly risen to her feet. Emma's blue eyes became deep wells of love and loss as she approached the elderly woman. "Baby girl," she beamed.

"Mama." As the old woman spoke the word, seventy two years melted away, and she stood before her mother, small and vulnerable. "Mama. You ain't vengeful no more?"

Emma smiled. "I weren't vengeful toward no one but Slaid. When he killed me, he passed some of the demon power to me. I don't even think he ever knew he done that. I couldn't let him hurt you. Then when you left, I stayed to make sure he didn't hurt no one else. I was afraid you'd come back. I had to make sure you was safe. I had to. So I took that power he gave to me, and I used it to hide and to try and stop the demon when he summoned it."

"I'm sorry for what I said that last day, Mama," Florabel said, still haunted by those hurtful words. "I never wanted…" she began to quiver and tears spilled onto her cheek. "I never wanted those words to be our last."

Emma's eyes filled, too. "Baby girl," she said. "You think I held on to them words? They was left right there on the floor that day. I never took them with me. But I got every 'I love you', you ever said, and all your little jokes and your silly ways right here," she pointed to her heart. She looked her daughter up and down. "You growed up _so_ beautiful, Florabel. I always knew you would. Look at you," she said with pride. "I can see your life and all the good you done, and even the hurts you took on. My baby girl," she said as she looked over to Dean and back to her daughter. Silent words passed between the two women a moment. Emma stirred, lifting her hand. She couldn't help but try and reach out to her child. Her eyes pooled with sadness when the hand passed through Florabel, making no contact. "I'm sorry for your sufferings, for what Slaid done to you, and for everything else that ever hurt you. I wish I could 'a been there for you, and…" she paused as though reading her daughter's thoughts. "My granddaughter?" she asked.

"Yes, Mama. I had a little girl. I named her Emeline after you." Florabel broke down in spite of her best effort. "You should see how beautiful she is, Mama," she wept. "You'd be so proud."

"I am," she said, and her eyes showed it. "I'm proud of both of you." Emma looked at the others gathering around. "I'm ready to go, now. Don't cry, baby girl," she said turning to Florabel again. "I'm so happy to be free." She looked at her daughter one last time. "Me and Papa and Henry will be waitin', whenever you's ready," she said with a smile.

"I don't think I'll be too much longer, Mama," she said.

"Maybe not," she smiled. "But you ain't done just yet." As Emma blew a kiss to her daughter her chest exploded into a starburst of light. All the bystanders blinked and, despite the beauty of it, shielded their eyes. When they opened them, Emma was gone.

No matter how happy she was for her mother, Florabel stood alone in the prairie grass and wept inconsolably.

_**To Be Continued…**_


	21. So Long, It's Been Good To Know Yuh

**A/N: I want to take one last beat to thank my betas, Numpty, Beckydaspatz, and NongPradu. Working with them and getting to know them really made this whole experience worthwhile for me. I am so grateful to these incredible, incredible women. As ever, see Chapter 1 for my full disclaimer. Warning this chapter for language.**

**A/N: I also want to thank every single person who ever took the time to read this story. My gratitude goes out in particular to my "regular" reviewers…those folks who consistently kept me company week in and week out, leaving multiple thought-provoking comments and criticisms: ackeberlynn, afickleflakes, Beckydaspatz, Colby's girl, emebalia, gr8read, Numpty, primadonna cat, sam's folly, snseriesfan, and the ever amazing Star. Thank you SO much! Without people like you, writing fanfic would be an extremely isolating and lonely endeavor! You all rock!**

**A/N: I dedicate this chapter to Beckydaspatz. Back when this story was just an overblown, messy, 10k word summary, Becky made an observation that really stuck with me. With Becky's permission and blessing, her observation has found its way into the mouth of Dean Winchester in this chapter. You're right, Becky. We really are Grade-A pussies compared to the people who lived through the Dust Bowl. This chapter is for you!**

**Enough jibber-jabber! Last chappie!**

_**Dust Devils**_

**Chapter 21: So Long, It's Been Good To Know Yuh**

**O**

_February 21, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

Florabel walked a little stiffly as she entered Dean's room, carrying a steaming bowl on a tray. Setting it down on the nightstand, she took a seat in the chair next to the bed and looked at Dean for a long moment. He was sleeping heavily. When she silently reached up and smoothed his brow, lightly brushing back a lock of hair, Dean sighed softly and twitched his eyelids. The old woman did a slight double-take and chuckled at memories. And suddenly, Florabel Livingston was seven years old again. She smiled her naughty, naughty smile, and, lifting her hand, she ever so gently placed her finger against one of his nostrils, blocking it completely. Dean swatted her hand away, letting out a disgruntled woof but didn't wake. Florabel bit her old lip to keep from laughing. She looked around and pulled a small feather from his pillow, fluffing it and running it along his jaw. Dean suddenly sighed with sleepy exasperation and put his hand up to his chin, scratching clumsily.

"Quit it, Florabel," he chided sleepily. The old woman whickered at him, unable to hold back her giggle. Dean opened his eyes at that, and Florabel noted that he was unable to mask the briefest moment of disappointment when he realized that the child he expected to see was not there. She deflated just a little.

"Not the version you were hoping for?" she asked, quietly. He feigned complete ignorance.

"Hmm?" he asked, raising a dissembling eyebrow. He blinked and sat up a little, looking around and clearing his throat. "Where's Sam?"

Florabel didn't call him on it. She understood. The old woman leaned back and stretched a little. "He's sleepin'," she said. "Bobby's down the hall watchin' over Ellen. She has a mild concussion. But," she said, pushing Dean back as he began to rise. "She's gonna be fine, Pally. Just let her git some rest. Everyone's gonna be fine. We're all bumped and bruised—a little stiff and sore—but we're all just fine." She reached for the steaming bowl on the tray. "Here, now. I brought you some food. You're gonna have to start eatin'. You're just skin an' bones."

He sat up a bit, interested. He looked at the bowl. "It smells good. I'm starved," he said. "What is it?"

Florabel looked at him blankly. "Why, it's jackrabbit broth, of course," she said with a deadpan shrug. She lifted the first spoonful to his lips.

"You're shitting me," he said, incredulous. She looked at him and, seeing his face, couldn't help but break character. She gave him a cheeky smile.

"Of course I'm shitting you," she laughed. "I ain't et a jackrabbit in close to seventy years." She lifted the spoon again, but he still looked dubious. "It's beef broth, silly. I raised the cattle myself. 100% grass fed, organic beef," she said proudly. "Top of the line, Pally. Now open up."

"Fuck, that tastes good," he said. After a few mouthfuls he stopped, looking up into the old woman's eyes. "This is just so surreal," he said.

"What is?" she asked, offering another spoonful, but he shook her off.

"Seeing you again. Like this. It's…it's different. I can see you in there, sometimes, I think. But then I'm not sure. I don't know how to describe it," he floundered. "It's just surreal," he shrugged.

Florabel huffed out a small chuckle. "You don't even know the half of it, Pally," she said curiously with a raised eyebrow.

Dean gave her a penetrating glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Mean?" she said, clicking her tongue. "It means that I'm an old woman. I got me one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, with senility betwixt the two. An' here I am a-sittin' with the only man I ever really loved other than Papa, a man who hasn't aged a single day in seventy-two years, a man who probably still has dust from Black Sunday in cracks and folds that ain't respectable to talk about. I'm sitting here feeding him beef broth after he burned the bones of the monster who dodged my steps as a child and gave me nightmares for years. To top everything off, last night I said goodbye to my mama's ghost seven decades after she died. Oh yeah, it's more'n a little surreal."

"Geez, I don't remember you being so cranky," he joked.

"Douchenozzle," she retorted with a wicked grin.

He lay quiet for a moment, searching again for the child he said goodbye to just days ago. As before, he saw her most recognizably in those big blue eyes. "What happened to you, Florabel?" he asked.

"Me? What do you mean?" she said, puzzled.

"That day…after everything happened. What happened after I left?"

"Oh," she said. She relaxed the bowl into her lap and sat quiet for a moment. "Old Jeb buried Slaid and then packed me up and walked me to the edge of town. Told me to go see the Sheriff. I never did see that sweet old man agin. Dunno whatever become of him. He was so shook up about everything. Didn't know which way was up, really. Not that I was much better off. Hell, I was probably worse. But still, I hope he got on all right. He was a goodly man. I ain't never forgot him in all these years." She looked at Dean sadly. "After that, I walked to the town. Don't remember too much about that time. I was in shock. They put me in a home in Guymon for orphans. They couldn't git me to talk the whole time I was there. They almost put me in the state hospital, thinkin' they was no hope for me. Dunno what would 'a become of me if'n that had happened. But one day a few months after Mama was killed, Pauline and Jack Crawford come to visit me, and they brung me back to their farm. They was broken over the loss of Lizzy…"

"Lizzy!" Dean looked shocked. "What was Slaid talking about?"

"Oh Dean," she stuttered and looked a little confused. "I thought Mama told you about her."

"Told me what?" he wanted to know.

She shook her head and sighed. "Lizzy was lost the night of the barn dance, right before the big storm. After we left that night, someone took her or she wandered off. Ain't no one ever found her nor no hint of her."

"Jesus Christ," Dean said. His eyes widened. "The storm," he moaned. "Slaid summoned it. It wasn't a natural storm. Fuck," he said. "He'd have needed a powerful sacrifice in order to summon that kind of strength from the demon."

Florabel nodded. "I always wondered if he done it. Weren't no way to find out. But after last night, I guess we all know, now." She took a moment to compose herself. "That poor, beautiful child. I pray to God that he didn't make her suffer…that he didn't…" She broke off, turning her head away. Dean grabbed her hand and held it tight.

"I'm sorry, Bel. I'm so sorry he did that to you," he said making eye contact. "I'd give anything to have protected you from that." He felt Florabel grip his hand back. The old woman swallowed her emotions.

"He didn't break me. I wouldn't never let him break me. He took the people I loved most from me. I wouldn't let him take my spirit. I just hope he didn't touch Lizzy. I pray that he didn't never touch her like that." Finally she let out a tired, heavy-hearted sigh. "And poor Mama Pauline. She never recovered from losing her, not completely. But she was Mama's good friend, and she wouldn't leave me in that orphanage. She brung me back, and we bonded so tight because we'd both lost folks we loved. I didn't talk for the first little while, and the Crawfords, they didn't force me none—not like the folks at the orphanage done. But it didn't take long before I was talking up a storm agin. Gittin' to go back to school done wonders, too. Mama Pauline walked me to that school every morning and was waitin' outside to bring me home each afternoon. She became like a mama to me, an' I ain't never gonna be able to repay the debt of their kindness. Papa Jack worked extra hard so that he could pay the taxes on both farms, and on my eighteenth birthday, they turned the title over to me, never askin' for a dime. They was good people. Papa Jack died in '85, and Mama Pauline followed him the very next spring." She smiled weakly. "They's with Lizzy, now." She spooned the broth in the bowl absently. "They took real good care of me, Pally. They treated me like one of their own. Then 'round about ten years after I come to be with them, just before I left for college, Mama Pauline finally had another baby—a little boy they named James. He's Matt Crawford's papa, the one whose story in the newspaper brung you and Sam here in the first place. Funny ain't it?" she commented. "How we was all connected without ever knowing it."

"And you never got married?" He looked haunted and weary when he said it, as though it was his failure, somehow.

She laughed. "No," she said, grinning at him. "Don't look at me that a-way," she chided him lightly. "You cain't fix everything nor wave a magic wand and make life perfect. Life ain't like that. It just ain't. But I had a life, Pally. I had a life because you saved me—in ways you cain't even realize. I become a doctor because of you. I believed I could do it because you told me I could, and I believed in you. I'd 'a never known what it was like to have my heart broke and not git married if'n it hadn't been for you. And I don't mean that in a bad way. I mean…I've had a life, all the good and bad mixed up together, just like it's supposed to be. All them experiences—having my beautiful baby girl, gittin' the flu one Christmas, havin' folks pay me for doctorin' them with sacks of potatoes and spring lambs instead of the cash I needed to make mortgage, goin' to Africa on my yearly vacation to treat babies with rickets, malaria, and AIDS—and on and on and on—I had all of that…done all of that because of you. That ain't a bad thing, and I ain't quibbling over not havin' a man at my side for the whole trip. I had a strange, wonderful life—imperfect, sometimes messy, but it weren't never boring. I want you to remember that, Pally. I'm OK with it all. So if'n you're ever in doubt about what I want and don't got, just remember me sayin' this." She reached out and wiped a tear from his cheek. He looked away, embarrassed and miserable. "We'll just blame that on the concussion," she laughed. "I'm OK, Pally. I promise." She smiled and sat quietly for a moment. "I always looked at the full moon and thought of you, Pally. Every single time I saw it." He looked at her sadly. "And it helped. It really did."

Florabel cleared her throat and sat up straight. "Now, you have more broth than those few spoonfuls. You're gonna hurt an old woman's feelings."

**O**

_February 22-27, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

A couple of days after Slaid had been salted and burned, Bobby and Ellen said their farewells to Florabel. Ellen was feeling better and was keen to get back to the Roadhouse. The last thing she wanted was to leave Ash in charge for too long. However, she made the boys promise that they would stop there before going on to the next hunt.

Sam and Dean stayed on with Florabel for another week until Dean was fit enough to travel. Of course, he spent that entire week being an insufferable, infuriating patient, and the better he got the more he refused to cooperate, typically pig-headed and mulish all the way. Soon he was out in the garage tooling around, giving both _buddy_ and _baby_ tune-ups and wax jobs. His vision was much better, but he still suffered from headaches and debilitating vertigo at times, though he tried to shrug off any help. Working on the cars was one way for him to be more independent as he always had something to grip and steady himself against. Florabel spent a fair amount of time out there visiting with him, though, and Sam could hear them laughing and talking until late at night. Sam had a keen interest in the organic farm the old woman ran, so Florabel spent a whole day showing the younger hunter around the place. She'd scaled back considerably in the last few years, but she still spent every weekend in the spring and summer selling her goods at the local farmer's market.

When she wasn't visiting with the boys in the garage, Florabel spent a lot of time in the kitchen, working to keep Dean fed. His appetite was insatiable, so she was kept busy stuffing him with all manner of comfort foods. At Sam's suggestion, she and the younger hunter baked a couple of apple pies together, neither of which survived the next two days with Dean in the house.

Sam noted that Dean was transparently upbeat, always trying just a little too hard. To the untrained eye, he just looked manic and a little phony, but Sam could plainly see that he was hiding a deeper sadness and hurt. He could especially see it when Dean stole glances at Florabel when she wasn't aware. Sam tried to talk to him about it a couple of times, but Dean waspishly told him to fuck off and then went right back to being impossibly happy and charming. The younger hunter didn't know if Florabel had picked up on it and was simply playing along with him or if she really didn't see the blatant fakery.

She appeared to be genuinely happy to spend time with him. One evening she even cajoled Dean into playing a game of marbles with her. The two of them tacked a yarn circle onto the carpet and hunkered down for a game. Trouble arose, however, when Florabel accused Dean of cheating.

"You're deliberately handicapping yourself, Pally. I cain't believe you! I'm a master marble player. You don't need to _let_ me win! I'll kick your ass fair and square like I always done. Now play right!" she said with heat.

A rare, genuine smile lit Dean's face. "Florabel…Florabel…," he laughed. "I'm playing exactly like I always played with you."

"That ain't so, Pally," she contended. "I always beat…" She stopped and gaped at him. "You mean to tell me you _let_ me win all them times?"

"Aw, come on now, Bel," he defended himself with a laugh. "You were seven years old. I wasn't going to just break your spirit. Fact is, your game has actually improved," he said with a friendly nudge. She looked at him as though he'd just told her there was no Santa Claus.

"I simply cain't believe you, Pally." Her jaw squared. "All right, then," she said with disgruntled determination before knuckling down and letting her shooter go. "We're playin' fair now. You play right, or y'ain't gittin' no more pies."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Them's fightin' words," he said. In the end, they played two games, allowing Florabel to rest in between, since sitting on the floor was not easy for her. Dean beat her soundly both times. Florabel was aghast and demanded a rematch the next time he visited.

And so the days went by, one after another, and even though Dean still had some issues with balance, after a week of recuperation, he told Florabel that they would be leaving the next day. Sam watched the old woman smile and nod slowly.

"I won't pitch a fit this time, Pally. But they's cell phones and better ways to git around these days. So you have to promise that you'll come back and pay me a visit when you can," she said. Sam could see a shielded, deeply masked heartbreak in her eyes, and he knew that she was working as hard as she could not to make a scene. Dean played right along, pretending everything was just fine. He even gave her a little chuck under her chin, as though that was a proper display of his emotions.

"You know I will," Dean said. Sam doubted very much if he'd live up to that promise. He knew his brother too well. And it actually made him feel physically ill. Again, Sam took Dean aside and asked him to talk about what was going on in his head, and again Dean pretended to have absolutely no clue what he was talking about.

That afternoon the three of them went to pay their respects at Emma's grave. Florabel and Dean tidied up all three plots belonging to the Livingstons, little Henry forever nestled between his parents. Florabel laid a small bouquet of flowers at each graveside.

"They was all taken far too young," she lamented. She tickled her fingertips lightly over her mother's stone, caressing the engraved name, there. "She was a wonderful mother. I only had eight short years with her, but I learned so much in that time about love and caring for others. She was the most hardworking, unselfish person I've ever known. She taught me grace," she said simply. She looked at Dean who briefly met her eye.

He bent down and set his own bouquet next to the one that Florabel had laid down. He cleared his throat as though to say something, hesitating a moment as he steadied himself. Both Sam and Florabel looked at him expectantly. Finally his shoulders drooped and he just nodded with a quick sniff. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he turned away. "I'll be in the car," he said casually over his shoulder.

Sam could feel his heat rising, his cheeks coloring with anger and frustration. He glanced at Florabel who had turned back to the grave after watching Dean walk off. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't' know why he's like that sometimes."

"It's all right," Florabel said softly. "I've had a lifetime to adjust. He only just lost her. It's all so raw and new and he's hurting. Everyone deserves a chance to mourn," she added.

"If only he would," Sam responded with a tired sigh.

**O**

_February 28, 2007—Boise City, Oklahoma_

The next day Sam and Dean left. Sam didn't witness Dean's and Florabel's goodbye. He sat in the car looking at the farmhouse, determined to let them have a private moment. However he'd only been waiting just a couple of minutes when Dean appeared. He gave an easygoing wave to Florabel as she stood shaded by the screen door. If Dean could have jogged away, Sam knew he certainly would have. As it was, however, he made his way carefully to the car and slipped into the passenger seat without a word of protest. Sam started the engine but turned to look at Dean before pulling away.

"Everything all right, man?" he asked. Dean gave him a cockeyed, confused look.

"Of course, Sammy," he said, his feelings camouflaged by a smug grin. "Let's book, dude. I want to get to the Roadhouse before dark." Sam looked at him, compassion, anger and disappointment mingling as his mouth worked soundlessly. Dean gave him an impatient shove. "Dude, if you're going to fart, roll down the window and just do it all ready and let's go. Come on, chop-chop. Let's get the hell out of here. Time to put this hunt behind us."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable," he muttered.

**O**

Florabel looked out into the darkness. At some point while she had been staring out the window at her wintered-over wheat field, sunset had turned to dusk and dusk to dark. She never even really noticed. She blinked and cleared her throat, coming out of her thoughts and drawing her thin arms around herself. She was cold.

She wandered aimlessly about her silent house for a while and then picked up the phone, slowly dialing a number. She studied the wheat field intently again as she waited for an answer and nearly gasped with relief when she got one.

"Emeline," she said. "It's Mama." She twisted the coiled phone-cord in her fingers and swallowed. "No, everything's all right," she said, hearing the concern in her daughter's voice. "I just—I just wanted to hear your voice, baby girl." Her own voice quavered despite her best effort. "No, no. Ain't nothin' wrong. It's just been a strange week," she sighed. There was a long pause before she began to cry softly into the phone, trying to find solace and comfort in the soothing voice of her daughter. "It's been a very hard week. But I'm fine. Really."

**O**

_March 2, 2007—Harvelle's Roadhouse_

Dean walked out of the kitchen juggling three beers, a huge sandwich and half a bag of chips. Sam watched as the elder hunter kept his destination locked in his sights and moved slowly so as not to lose his balance. Dean was mending, but he still wasn't near ready to hunt again. The very fact that Dean agreed to stay at the Roadhouse without grousing and bitching told Sam everything he needed to know. Of course Dean kept his artificial smile plastered on his face the whole time. He wasn't fooling anyone, though, least of all Sam. It absolutely annoyed the younger hunter to no end, and it worried him immensely. Dean needed to deal with what happened. It was like losing their dad all over again, perhaps not on the same scale, but enough to cause Dean to adopt the same spurious façade. Sam could see how off balance his brother was, literally and figuratively. He watched him move across the bar on wooden, jerky legs, eyes fixated on the table the whole way. Sam couldn't get over how his brother had changed in such a short time. He fretted over how thin Dean was. It was such a drastic change from the solid, well-built frame he'd known for so many years. Although, Sam noted that Dean seemed hell bent on climbing up the scale in record time. Once Dean set the plate down on the table, he carefully pulled the chair out and sat with an overtly casual huff.

Sam's stomach took a sour turn when he looked at the heart attack on a plate and the gusto with which Dean consumed it, the elder Winchester pausing only to drink half a beer in one go. "You have a glob of mayo on your chin," Sam said over the buzz of the tattoo gun in Ellen's hand. Sam stared at his brother, incredulous as he watched the gastronomical debauchery taking place across the table. "Didn't you just have the leaning tower of pizza a couple of hours ago?" he asked.

Dean took his finger and scooped the mayo off his chin and into his mouth, laughing at Sam's squeamish face. Grabbing his beer he glugged the rest of it heartily, belched and finally smacked his lips. "I got a lot of catchin' up to do, Sammy," he said, patting his tummy. "I've been on the Dust Bowl diet for almost three months. Besides," he said pulling his collar down and looking at his new tattoo. "My titty hurts."

"Big baby," Ellen teased and looked at Dean. She noticed the huge sandwich Dean was trying to fit into his mouth. "Keep your food away from my work area, now," she said, shooing him away before she applied more ink to the outer flame-bursts around Sam's anti possession tattoo. She wiped the skin clean of the excess ink and applied just a little more petroleum jelly to Sam's chest.

"Aw, geez, Ellen, c'mon m'hungry!" he said with his mouth crammed full.

Bobby looked up from the monitor where he and Ash were doing research a few tables over. "Is Woody Guthrie singin' the blues again?" he asked.

"Oh you're hysterical. Those names just never get old," Dean quipped and took another huge bite of sandwich.

"They really don't," Bobby agreed with a mischievous nod.

Sam winced as Ellen hit a tender spot. "Ow, careful, Ellen," he fussed.

"Both of you are big babies," she commented without pausing or looking up.

"Seriously, though," Dean mused. "Tatts ain't nothing once you've lived through the Dust Bowl," Dean said as he examined the symbol over his heart. "Lemme tell you what—we are some Grade-A fuckin' pussies compared the people who lived through those times." He looked at them in turn. "Hell, the lack of indoor plumbing alone was traumatizing," he said with a shiver at the memory.

"Tell us about it, Petunia," Bobby snorted. "We all caught a whiff when you came back."

"Shut up," Dean said, looking rather sheepish and offended. "That was medicine," he explained. Sam had been watching his brother and finally rolled his eyes, snorting. Dean looked at him. "What?" he defended. "That's what it was. Did you know that turpentine is still an ingredient in Vick's VapoRub? Look it up," Dean said with a haughty nod. "Florabel told me that."

"That's not what I was talking about," Sam said.

"You call that talking? I call it snorting," Dean said. Sam merely rolled his eyes again. "What?" Dean looked his brother up and down, irritated.

"You," Sam said.

"Me? What?" Dean said.

"I'm not getting into it here," Sam said, looking down at Ellen working deftly with the ink-gun.

"Well, good," Dean said, barely masking his sudden contempt. He went to grab his plate and leave, but Sam stopped him.

"You think you're fooling anyone, Dean?" he snapped.

Dean stopped and turned too fast, losing his balance just enough to have to grab the table. He dropped the plate on the floor, the sandwich upending, scattering lettuce and smearing mayonnaise and mustard. Ellen abruptly pulled away from Sam and turned off the ink-gun. "Jesus Christ, Sammy, give it a damn rest, already. I said I was fine. What the hell is your problem?" Dean ground out.

"My problem? _My_ problem?" Sam practically hooted. "I'm not the one with the problem, Dean, and I'd like to help you with yours. You're not really hiding whatever pain you're in, you know that? Everyone can see it, so why don't you just admit that this whole thing got to you? Admit that you miss them. Admit that you loved them. Why is that so hard?"

Dean looked at his brother with icy anger. "Screw you," he said. He grabbed the remaining two beers and moved as quickly as he dare, flinging the door open and slamming it shut behind him. The others stared at Sam in shocked silence.

Sam scowled. "Why does he have to be that way, Bobby?" he turned to the old hunter with indignant frustration.

Bobby looked from Sam to the door and back. "Probably because not everyone sits on their bed crying into a carton of Ben and Jerry's while listening to Alanis Morissette." Bobby bored holes in the young hunter. "Jesus boy. Y'need to get your hormone levels checked."

"Bobby, he needs to talk about it," Sam defended.

"He _is_ talking about it. He's been talking about it this whole time. Can't you see that? He's hurting like hell and he's lettin' us all know in his own way. No need to try makin' him into something he ain't. He ain't like you," Bobby said, shaking his head. "He's never been that way, and he's not ever going to be. You got to learn that some folks need to talk things through, and some folks need to be left alone. The sooner you accept that the easier it's gonna be for the both of you."

Sam huffed out a puff of steam, silently bitchfacing the door. He sat sulking for a moment, his glare easing until empathy and guilt overtook it. "Shit," he said finally. He went to get up, but Ellen pulled his sleeve and forced him back down.

"Not now, Sam," she warned. "Just let him be. There's makin' it _worse_ and then there's makin' it _worst_. Let him be alone for now," she advised.

Bobby nodded, "And when he comes back actin' like nothing happened with a big ol' smile on his face—and that's exactly what he's gonna do—you just go right along with it this time. You follow his lead on this one and things will blow over quicker."

**O**

Dean leaned against the door, standing on quivering legs, breathing heavily. He watched his breath blow out a frosty blue as the cool full moon touched the mist. He looked up at the light and drank deeply. Screw Sam. What did he know? He said he was fine. He rolled his shoulders angrily. Yes, it had been a hard hunt, but that's just part of the job. He was OK. He stuck his hand in his pocket and a jolt went through him when he felt the small glass bead that he'd been keeping there. He pulled it out and looked at the blue marble, studying its swirls and twists. "I'm OK," he promised himself. He grasped the marble in his hand and held it to his heart. "I'm good," he said convincingly.

"I'm fine," he said, twitching as he felt the pull of tears. Yes, he'd become attached. Yes he had some regrets, but what hunter doesn't have those? Florabel had grown up well. She'd lived an amazing life and had done great things. So what the hell was Sam's problem? He rubbed his eyes and refused to acknowledge the moisture on his fingers. He couldn't very well have stayed in 1935. It wasn't his time, wasn't his life. He was better off where he was. "I'm _fine_," he boasted and put the blue marble back in his pocket. "I'm needed here," he said, thinking of Sam, thinking of the lives that depended upon him. "What I've got isn't perfect," he said to himself. "But it's as good as it's ever going to get."

His legs refused to support him any longer, and he slid down the door and came to rest on his ass with a thump. He leaned against the door, opening his third beer and took a long pull off of it, lulling himself. He thought of Emma and her soft voice—so not his type, and yet everything he'd needed at the time. He thought of Florabel and her insatiable enthusiasm for life. He remembered her warmth against his chest as he carried her up the stairs to put her to bed. He could still feel the slight weight of her head as it draped against his neck and shoulder, sleepy and completely trusting. Sure he missed her, missed her laugh, her feisty spirit, but he couldn't change it back. He wouldn't change it back even if he could. "This is where I belong," he affirmed. He swatted another tear away before it could fall. He had a job to do, and he was at peace with that. He was. He'd never be able to work a family into this life. It wouldn't be fair to them. Sam was all the family he needed, and even putting him at risk was sometimes more than he could bear. There was no need to be upset about how things turned out. All things considered, they'd turned out rather well. He didn't mean to abandon Florabel, never wanted to cause her pain, but she'd come out of it well. She was strong. She was fine.

He lifted his eyes and stared at the full moon as it hung loudly in the night sky. "I'm fine," he nodded to himself. "Everything is fine."

_**The End. **_


End file.
